“Don’t say another word.”

While Evan had arranged for a rapid, closed-casket burial, using his wealth to grease the wheels of the local mortuary, I had quietly filed an emergency judicial motion to halt the cremation.

I had demanded an independent, out-of-county medical review.

And while the two of them walked down the aisle today, laughing, utterly convinced that my maternal grief had left me impotent, the state toxicologist was already finalizing the report on the heavy metals they’d tried to hide in her bloodwork.

“Arthur,” I said, not breaking eye contact with Evan.

Mr. Halden reached into his worn leather folder and extracted a small black flash drive, holding it aloft between his thumb and forefinger.

“Emma left one final, explicit instruction,” Mr. Halden announced.