Chapter 1
The air in the living room smelled heavily of white lilies and damp earth, a sickeningly sweet combination that clung to the back of Clara’s throat. Sunlight poured unmercifully through the tall bay windows, illuminating floating dust motes that danced around the polished white coffin resting in the center of the room. It was an obscene setup for a Tuesday morning, bright and clinical, clashing violently with the heavy grief that was supposed to occupy the space. Yet grief was missing; it had been replaced by a suffocating, brittle tension.
Little Lily stood near the floral wreaths, her small bare toes curling against the hardwood floor. Her pink dress, usually a cheerful shade, looked stained and rumpled under the harsh daylight. She clutched a faceless rag doll so tightly her small knuckles had turned completely white. Her lower lip trembled, and tears tracked steadily down her flushed cheeks, but she didn’t sob aloud. Instead, she pointed a trembling finger directly at the white casket. Her voice, thin and piercing, cut through the heavy silence like broken glass.
“Grandma is lying!” Lily cried out, her small frame shaking with a mixture of terror and fierce defiance.
Across the room, Elena—dressed in a severe black lace dress that seemed designed to absorb light rather than reflect it—raised her hands in a gesture of immediate, defensive disbelief. Her palms were outward, fingers spread wide as if she were pushing back an invisible wall. Her face was pale, devoid of the practiced sorrow expected of a grieving mother.
“The child is confused,” Elena said, her voice rising in a sharp, urgent cadence that sounded entirely too rehearsed. She stepped toward Lily, her black heels clicking sharply against the floor. “She’s been through a trauma. She doesn’t understand what death means. Stop listening to her.”
Before Elena could reach the girl, the heavy oak front door creaked open further. Derek stepped through the threshold, moving slowly into the bright room. A dark, ugly bruise stained the right side of his jaw, swelling his cheek and shadowing his neck above his black shirt and sharply tailored suit. His eyes were cold, fixed entirely on Lily. He ignored Elena, ignoring the white coffin entirely, his gaze locked on the small girl holding her doll.
May you like
Derek took a slow breath, his chest rising and falling beneath the black fabric. His voice, when it came, was dangerously soft, carrying across the quiet room with chilling clarity.
“Lily, look at me,” Derek murmured, taking another step forward. “What did you see?”
