I leaned forward, ready to stand, ready to scream, ready to drag her out by her expensive hair. My father touched my shoulder.
“Not here,” he murmured. “Not now.”
Brandon guided Tiffany to the front row, to the seat that should have been mine if I were the widow. Tiffany leaned her head on his shoulder. He patted her hand like a loving partner. The hypocrisy burned my chest.
The pastor began the service. Words floated through the air. Kindness. Memory. Hope. Baby. I heard almost nothing. I watched Brandon jaw clench when certain prayers mentioned faithfulness. I watched Tiffany glance around like she was checking who noticed her.
After the final hymn, people began to stand. That was when a man in a gray suit walked calmly to the front. He carried a leather briefcase and a thin folder. His expression was steady, almost gentle.
He cleared his throat.
“My name is Walter Lawson,” he said. “I was Abigail legal representative. She left specific instructions for this day.”
Brandon turned sharply. “This is not the time,” he said loudly. “We are grieving.”
Mr. Lawson did not move.