I walked into St. Mark’s Funeral Home, lilies choking the air, their scent suffocating. Emily Carter should have been picking crib sheets, painting a nursery, not lying in a gleaming mahogany casket, her eight-month belly still visible beneath the satin lining. My fists clenched so tightly my wedding band pressed painfully into my skin.
At the front, her husband, Jason Reed, stood shoulder-to-shoulder with a blonde woman in a fitted black dress I’d never seen before. Smiling. Comforting. His hand entwined with hers.
“Have you no shame?” I hissed.
He leaned close. “After today, I’m free,” he muttered.
Free. The word struck like a punch. I stared at Ava, her manicured fingers laced with his. My daughter’s casket stood between us—a barrier I couldn’t cross, not yet.
The attorney arrived—Mr. Dawson, gray suit, heavy folder in hand. Emily’s friend Sarah whispered beside me, “She made me promise I’d be here.”
After the service, Mr. Dawson cleared his throat. “There is a condition for any inheritance,” he said.
Jason scoffed. “A condition? She didn’t have anything without me.”
Then he read the page. His face drained of color.
“Emily’s estate—life insurance, savings, premarital share of the house—is held in a trust for her child,” Mr. Dawson said evenly.
Jason snapped. “That’s my kid too!”
“The will requires confirmation of paternity,” Mr. Dawson continued. “Until then, Mr. Reed has no access.”
Ava’s hand slipped away. Jason tried to laugh—it sounded hollow.
Sarah handed Mr. Dawson an envelope. “She asked me to bring this.”
He unfolded it. “To my mother, Linda,” he read, “if you’re hearing this, I’m gone. Don’t believe the story Jason tells. I found out about Ava three months ago. Screenshots, bank records, hotel receipts. My car brakes were tampered with—Jason paid in cash.”
Silence fell.
“That’s a lie,” Jason stammered.
Emily’s instructions were clear: all evidence to police and insurance, and I was named temporary trustee of the child’s estate.
Jason lunged for the documents. Funeral staff intervened. “She recorded him too,” Sarah whispered.
Mr. Dawson faced Jason. “Any interference triggers release of all evidence to authorities.”
Fear replaced arrogance. Ava shrank back. Jason’s mask slipped.
After the mourners left, I sat with Mr. Dawson and Sarah. The folder contained screenshots, bank transfers, hotel receipts, messages—proof of planning, deception, and danger. Emily had fought alone, protecting us even in her final days.
“Your daughter named you beneficiary of the remainder to protect herself and you,” Mr. Dawson said gently.
Outside, Jason paced, phone pressed to his ear. Ava lingered. When he saw me, fury and panic contorted his face.
“You can’t do this,” he snapped.
“Emily wasn’t paranoid,” I said firmly. “She was documenting.”
“If you go to the police, you’ll ruin everything,” he warned.
“That’s the point,” I replied.
I didn’t argue. I drove straight to the police station, folder in hand, handing over Emily’s letter and all evidence. The detective’s expression changed—the tragic accident was no longer so simple.
That night, alone in Emily’s unfinished nursery, grief finally surfaced. But beneath it, a steady, unyielding resolve. Jason had believed the funeral would end things.
Emily had ensured it was only the beginning.
