My husband left my father’s funeral to go traveling with his mistress. But at 3 a.m., I got a message—from my father: “My daughter, it’s me, Dad. Come to the cemetery right now, and come very quietly.”

Emma shifted behind me without thinking. Andrew’s eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t be talking to her.”

My pulse surged. “Why not?”

He paused a beat too long. “Because she’s unstable. The facility fired her—”

“No,” Emma said, voice shaking. “I quit after they tried to silence me.”

Andrew shot her a look cold enough to make the air feel sharper.

And suddenly the pieces lined up:
His sudden “trip.”
The strange tension he’d had before the funeral.
The way he sometimes visited my father alone—unannounced.

And now, him showing up at 3 a.m.

“What did you say to my father?” I asked quietly.

He scoffed, but his eyes flickered—fear, guilt, irritation. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Don’t lie.”

His face hardened. “He didn’t know what he was talking about.”

That sentence chilled me.

My father had told Emma someone threatened him. Andrew dismissed him the same way the director had. The same way abusers always dismiss their victims.

I asked again, firmer. “Andrew… what did you say to him?”

He opened his mouth, shut it, his jaw working like he was grinding his teeth. Then he stepped closer and lowered his voice.

“He thought he could get involved in our marriage.”

My breath caught. “Get involved how?”