And right on schedule, they were there.
Richard on the porch. Dean pacing by the hydrangeas. Colin pulling into the drive behind me so fast gravel snapped beneath his tires. He got out first and came toward me with that urgent, wounded expression men wear when they are trying to get control back before the room changes shape.
“Where were you?” he asked. “I’ve been terrified.”
I let my face soften just enough. “My phone died. I needed air.”
Richard stepped in next, voice low and fatherly. “Sweetheart, this is not a good time to disappear.”
There it was. The authority. The assumption. The rehearsed concern with something metallic underneath it.
Dean came closer. “Did Mom leave you anything? Any note? Any key? The gravedigger said he spoke to you.”
So the gravedigger had already been noticed. Good. That meant they were nervous enough to rush.
Colin touched my arm. Lightly. “Let’s go home.”
I didn’t pull away.
Instead, I reached into my bag, pulled out my phone, and held it up so they could all see the screen. “Before I do that,” I said, “I want to hear one thing clearly. Which one of you knew the coffin was empty?”
For a second, no one moved.
Then all three started at once.
Richard called it grief confusion. Dean swore he had no idea what I was talking about. Colin went pale first, which was answer enough even before he said my name in that careful, dangerous tone people use when they realize panic is showing.
That was when Detective Morrow stepped onto the porch behind them.
No one screamed. Real fear is usually quieter than that. Richard simply stopped blinking. Dean stepped back too fast and nearly lost his footing off the walkway. Colin removed his hand from my arm like it had suddenly become evidence.
