The church in our small Texas town was heavy with the scent of white lilies and low, murmured prayers. At the front sat my sister Lily’s closed casket. She had been thirty-two weeks pregnant when she supposedly “fell” down the stairs. That was Jason’s explanation. A tragic accident. Nothing more.
I never believed him.
When the church doors opened and Jason stepped inside, the tension in the room tightened instantly. He wore a black suit, his expression carefully composed—and beside him was a tall brunette in a fitted black dress, clinging to his arm as if she belonged there.
My mother sucked in a sharp breath. “Is he serious?” she whispered, gripping my hand painfully tight.
“That’s Rachel,” I murmured. I recognized the name from months earlier, when it had flashed across Lily’s phone. “The coworker.”
