At my mother’s funeral, the gravedigger quietly pulled me aside and said, “Ma’am, your mom paid me to bury an empty coffin.” I told him to stop playing games. Then he slipped a key into my hand, whispered, “Don’t go home. Go to Unit 16 right now,” and my phone lit up with a message from my mother: “Come home alone.”

Now her number was sending messages as if she had never been placed in the coffin waiting to be lowered into the ground.

I looked up quickly and caught my uncle Franklin watching me, though he turned away too late to hide it completely.

Something inside me shifted at that moment, because instinct finally pushed past grief and forced me to think clearly.

I slipped my phone into my bag and hid the key inside my sleeve before turning back to the mourners with the expression they expected to see.

I leaned toward my husband, Colin Mercer, and told him I felt faint, trying to sound fragile without drawing attention.

He immediately offered to come with me, but I refused too quickly, and I noticed the brief flicker of something calculating in his eyes before it disappeared.

On my way to the car, Victor called out asking where I was going, while Olivia took a small step as if she might follow me.

Franklin told her to let me have space, and his tone sounded protective while somehow feeling rehearsed.

Unit 16 was located at a storage facility about ten minutes away, and I checked the number on the key fob before starting the engine.