The guard froze the frame.
The air left my lungs.
Lydia Monroe.
She owned the supply company that delivered materials to Ray’s office. I had met her a handful of times at company gatherings. She was efficient and polished, and she always laughed just a little too loudly at Ray’s jokes.
Now she was the woman slipping secret notes into my husband’s coffin.
I snapped a photo of the paused screen with my phone.
“Thank you,” I told the guard. My voice sounded surprisingly steady.
When I returned to the chapel, Lydia stood near the back, speaking to two women from Ray’s office. A tissue was clutched in her hand. Her eyes were red. She looked like a grieving widow from an alternate version of my life.
When she saw me walking toward her, something flickered across her face. It was fear. It was guilt.
“You left something in my husband’s casket,” I said.
She blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“I watched you do it on camera. Do not lie to me.”
Color drained from her cheeks. “I just wanted to say goodbye.”
“Then you could have done it like everyone else. Why hide it?”
People nearby had grown quiet. I could feel their attention tightening around us.
I pulled the note from my purse. “Who are the kids, Lydia?”
Her chin trembled. For a moment, I thought she might faint. Instead, she nodded once, barely perceptibly.
Leave a Comment