A sleek black Cadillac Escalade rolled toward the curb, tires crunching softly on gravel. It was the lead vehicle, the family car, polished to a mirror shine.
The rear door opened.
Samantha Morrison stepped out.
At seventy-five, she had not softened with age. If anything, time had sharpened her. She wore black fur that looked too luxurious for a morning like this, the collar framing her face like a throne. A wide-brimmed hat shadowed her eyes, and diamonds flashed on her fingers when she lifted a hand to adjust the brim.
She scanned the crowd with the calm entitlement of someone used to rooms rearranging themselves around her.
Then her gaze found me.
She paused just long enough for it to feel deliberate.
Then she started walking.
I took a step forward, not rushing, but moving with purpose. I intended to join my husband, to stand beside him in the family line. Grief, whatever else it was, was supposed to pull people together. That was the story, anyway.
Before I reached the curb, Samantha spoke.
“Stop right there.”
Her voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It carried a razor edge that sliced clean through the murmurs and the polite condolences. Conversations stalled mid-sentence. Heads turned in subtle angles. The air shifted.
Samantha closed the distance between us in quick, clipped steps, heels striking the stone in sharp taps.
She stopped inches from my face.
Her perfume hit first, rich and overpowering, drowning out the damp scent of fallen leaves. She invaded my space like it was her right. Her eyes flicked over my uniform with obvious contempt.
“Know your place, Cecilia,” she said, low and venomous.
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