Chapter 6 - The Funeral TrapRain began ten minutes before Mark’s funeral.
Not dramatic rain.
Just a cold, persistent November drizzle that settled into coats and hair and flowers.
Grace stayed with my mother in a private room at the church.
I stood beside Mark’s coffin greeting people whose names I could barely remember.
Coworkers.
Neighbors.
College friends.
Nurses.
Three people from his old running club.
And strangers.
A woman in her sixties approached me near the end of visitation.
She held my hands.
“Your husband saved my son’s life.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“His kidney.”
My knees nearly weakened.
The transplant coordinator had told me two donations had been successfully completed.
But privacy rules meant I knew almost nothing about the recipients.
The woman cried.
“My son is twenty-eight.”
I covered my mouth.
“He has two little girls.”
For the first time since Mark died, something warm broke through the numbness.
One piece of him was helping someone remain a father.
It mattered.
It mattered more than I could explain.
“Thank you for telling me.”
“No,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
After the service, Ethan approached.
He wore a black suit.
His eyes were swollen.
To everyone around us, he looked like a devastated brother.
Maybe part of him really was.
That thought was difficult to accept.
People capable of terrible things do not stop being human.
Sometimes they love the person they destroy.
Sometimes greed simply wins.
Ethan hugged me in front of the crowd.
“Beautiful service.”
“Thank you.”
“Can we talk later?”
There it was.
“About what?”
“The business.”
I let anger flash naturally.
“Today?”
“No, no. Not today.”
He touched my arm.
“Tomorrow.”
“I don’t know anything about the business.”
“I’ll make it easy.”
I almost laughed.
“I’m sure you will.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
I lowered mine.
“Sorry. I’m exhausted.”
“Of course.”
Detective Mitchell watched from across the room disguised as another mourner.
The next afternoon, Ethan came to my house.
He carried a leather portfolio.
A recording device was hidden beneath my dining-room table.
Another was inside the lamp.
Two detectives waited in a van down the street.
My mother had taken Grace to my aunt’s home.
I hated letting my daughter out of sight, but Mitchell insisted.
If Ethan became dangerous, Grace could not be there.
I poured coffee I did not drink.
Ethan opened the portfolio.
“This is straightforward.”
He slid papers toward me.
I pretended to read.
“What am I signing?”
“Just acknowledgment that Dad’s old partnership agreement takes effect.”
“Meaning?”
“I purchase Mark’s shares.”
“For how much?”
He paused.
“About nine hundred thousand.”
I looked up sharply.
Mark’s stake was worth millions.
Harold had warned me.
“Only nine hundred thousand?”
“That’s the formula Dad created.”
“That sounds unfair.”
“It is what Mark agreed to.”
“When?”
“Years ago.”
“Did Mark ever update it?”
Ethan’s eyes flickered.
“No.”
Lie.
I lowered my gaze.
“What happens if I don’t sign?”
“It complicates things.”
“How?”
He leaned forward.
“Emily, you have a newborn. You’ve just lost your husband. The last thing you need is years of litigation.”
The threat was wrapped in concern.
Very Ethan.
“What would litigation be about?”
“Technicalities.”
“What technicalities?”
His patience thinned.
“Mark’s ownership.”
“Was he investigating you?”
Silence.
I hadn’t planned to say it that early.
The question escaped.
Ethan stared at me.
“What?”
“Before he died.”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Mark told me everything.”
I almost smiled.
The greatest lie in the room.
Mark had hidden the most important truth of his life from him.
“He hired an investigator.”
Ethan’s face changed.
Only slightly.
Enough.
“Who told you that?”
“So you knew.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
He closed the folder.
“This conversation is over.”
“No.”
He stood.
I remained seated.
“Sit down.”
He laughed.
“Excuse me?”
“For once in your life, sit down and answer me.”
He stared at me.
Then slowly sat.
“Did you give Mark those supplement drinks?”
His eyes hardened.
“What drinks?”
“The ones you brought him.”
“I brought him lots of things.”
“The bottles from the clinic.”
“I don’t remember.”
“Mark saved one.”
That was not entirely true.
He had saved a sample.
Ethan’s face drained.
“He tested it.”
Ethan said nothing.
“And he left records.”
Nothing.
“Bank records.”
His jaw tightened.
“Photographs.”
His breathing changed.
“Insurance documents.”
“Emily.”
“What?”
“You need to be careful.”
The room seemed colder.
“Is that a threat?”
“No.”
“It sounded like one.”
“Mark was sick.”
“Yes.”
“Terminally sick.”
“Yes.”
“He was confused.”
“No, he wasn’t.”
“Medication affects people.”
“He knew exactly what he was doing.”
Ethan’s palms pressed flat against the table.
“You don’t understand what Mark did to me.”
There.
The first crack.
“What did he do?”
“He was going to destroy everything.”
“For exposing fraud?”
His eyes flashed.
“You have no idea what happened.”
“Tell me.”
For a second, I thought he might.
Then his expression closed.
He gathered the documents.
“You’re grieving. I’ll come back another time.”
He walked toward the front door.
I followed.
Then he stopped.
His eyes landed on the hallway table.
A framed photograph of Mark and me.
Beside it was Mark’s old black notebook.
Not the real one.
Detective Mitchell had created a duplicate.
Ethan froze.
“Where did you get that?”
My heart pounded.
“What?”
“The notebook.”
I played stupid.
“It was Mark’s.”
“Can I see it?”
“No.”
“Emily.”
“No.”
He moved toward it.
I stepped between him and the table.
His expression changed completely.
Grief vanished.
Warmth vanished.
For the first time, I saw the man Mark must have seen near the end.
“Give it to me.”
“No.”
His hand grabbed my wrist.
Hard.
The detectives were supposed to intervene if he became violent.
I knew they were listening.
But I wanted Ethan talking.
“What’s inside it?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why do you want it?”
He tightened his grip.
“Because it belongs to my family.”
“Mark was my family.”
“He was my brother!”
“And you killed him!”
Silence.
The words exploded through the house.
Ethan stared at me.
Then he laughed.
Softly.
Almost sadly.
“You really think that?”
I didn’t answer.
His face moved closer to mine.
“You think I killed Mark?”
“Yes.”
He released my wrist.
Then whispered:
“If I wanted Mark dead, Emily…”
His gaze dropped toward my stomach, now empty after Grace’s birth.
“…why would I have waited so long?”
The front door burst open.
Detectives rushed inside.
Ethan spun.
Mitchell shouted.
“Hands where I can see them!”
For one glorious second, I thought it was over.
Then Ethan smiled.
Actually smiled.
“You’ve got nothing.”
Mitchell handcuffed him for assault.
But he was right.
They still did not have enough for Mark’s murder.
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And twenty-four hours later, Ethan made bail.
That night, he disappeared.
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