Outside, I saw Jason pacing, phone to his ear. Ava lingered near his car, arms crossed, uncertain. When Jason spotted me, he rushed over, fury and panic etched across his face. “Linda, you can’t do this,” he snapped. “You’re grieving. You’re being manipulated.”
I clutched the folder like armor. “Emily wasn’t paranoid,” I replied. “She was documenting.”
He lowered his voice. “If you go to the police, you’ll ruin everything. You’ll ruin me.”
“That’s the point,” I said, meaning every word.
I didn’t argue further. I walked past him, got into my car, and drove straight to the police station with Mr. Dawson’s card in hand. I handed over the folder, the letter, and Sarah’s contact information. The detective’s expression shifted as he read—the look that appears when a “tragic accident” begins to look like something else.
That night, alone in Emily’s unfinished nursery, I sat in the rocking chair and let my grief surface at last. But beneath it was something steady and unyielding. Jason believed the funeral would be the end.
Emily had ensured it was only the beginning.
