“You doing okay?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” I said automatically.
Laura’s eyes flicked to my purse. “You still have your phone, right?”
The question struck me as odd. “Yes.”
“And Dad’s house keys.”
“Yes.”
She nodded slowly. “Good.”
Good. The same word, the same careful tone, like she was checking boxes on a list I wasn’t allowed to see. Before I could ask why, someone behind us cleared their throat. The minister stepped toward the podium and the room fell quiet.
The service began. I tried to listen. I truly did. The minister talked about Robert’s generosity. About the construction company he built from nothing. About the way he coached Daniel’s little league team for six straight summers even while working 14-hour days. But the words drifted past me like smoke.
Instead, I noticed small things. Daniel kept glancing at his watch. Margaret—Daniel’s wife—sat two rows behind me, leaning forward, her eyes moving back and forth between Laura and Daniel as if she was following a silent conversation. Laura’s husband, Ethan Parker, sat stiffly with his arms crossed, jaw tight. Every now and then, the three of them exchanged quick looks. Not sad looks. Nervous ones.
A cold line slid down my spine.
Maybe grief was making me paranoid, I told myself. Families were awkward at funerals. People didn’t know where to stand or what to say. Everyone felt uncomfortable. That was normal.
But then I noticed something else. Every time I shifted in my seat or opened my purse for a tissue, Daniel’s eyes moved immediately to my hands. Like he was watching what I might take out. What I might read.
I pressed my lips together.
Don’t trust Dad.
The service ended about 40 minutes later. People stood and formed a slow line to approach the casket one last time before we left for the cemetery. Daniel stepped beside me again.
“Mom, why don’t we go first?” he said. “It’ll be easier before the line gets long.”
I nodded. We walked together toward Robert. For a moment everything else disappeared—the funeral home, the people, the whispers. I reached out and touched the edge of the casket. Robert looked peaceful. Too peaceful. The funeral director had done careful work. His gray hair combed neatly, his favorite navy tie straight against his shirt.
But the stillness felt wrong.
Robert had never been still a day in his life.
Daniel’s hand tightened on my shoulder. “We should head outside soon. The cars are waiting.”
“Of course,” I whispered.
As we turned away, I caught sight of Lucas near the back of the room. He was staring at me. When our eyes met, he quickly looked down at the floor the same way he had after giving me the note.
A knot formed in my chest.
After the service, the family gathered near the front entrance while the funeral staff organized the procession to the cemetery. Daniel stayed close to me—too close.
“After the burial,” he said quietly, “why don’t you come stay at our place for a few days?”
“That’s not necessary,” I said, still polite, still playing the part of the grieving mother.w
“It might be easier,” he insisted. “You shouldn’t be alone right now.”
Laura stepped forward. “I agree with Daniel,” she said gently. “You shouldn’t go back to that big house by yourself tonight.”
