The funeral was scheduled quickly. A closed casket because of the trauma, they said. White lilies covered every surface. The pastor spoke softly about angels and peace. The town gathered in their Sunday clothes, whispering condolences, hugging my parents, avoiding my eyes.
I sat in the front pew with my mother and father. My hands were locked together so tightly my fingers went numb. I stared at the casket and imagined my sister inside, still pregnant, still hopeful, still believing she had time.
Then the church doors opened. Brandon walked in wearing a black suit that fit too well. His hair was styled. His shoes shined. He looked like a man attending a business meeting. And on his arm was a tall woman in a fitted black dress, her long hair curled, her hand resting on his bicep like she owned the space.
The room shifted. A ripple of disbelief moved through the pews.
My mother inhaled sharply. “Is he serious,” she whispered.
My father gripped the bench.
I stared at the woman. I had seen her once in a photograph on Abigail phone when a message popped up by accident. A name. Tiffany.