When they thought he was dead, they threw him into his own car, poured gasoline inside, and pushed it off the road. The crash jolted him awake just as the fire started. Somehow he got the door open and crawled out before the car exploded. He hid until dark, then walked for hours to get to me.
I held him and cried, but after the crying came something harder. “If Laura thinks you’re dead,” I told him, “we’ll let her keep thinking that. We’ll let her feel safe. And when she least expects it, we’ll bring everything down on her.”
The next morning Laura called again, pretending to be the grieving widow. I played my part too. I went to the funeral in black, hid my eyes behind sunglasses, and watched the whole disgusting performance. The chapel was full.
A sealed coffin stood at the front beneath Daniel’s smiling picture. Laura wore black, cried at the right moments, accepted hugs, and acted like the perfect widow.
But I watched closely. When she thought nobody saw her, I caught the relief in her face.
Then I saw Ryan slip in through the side and sit in the back.
After the service I stayed outside instead of following the coffin. From a bench near the trees, I watched people leave.