Charlotte felt her heart slam against her ribs as she recognized the woman immediately. It was Lillian Moore, the second maid, younger, newer, the one who worked night shifts and handled medications, the one Charlotte had always worried was being asked to carry burdens she did not understand.
Lillian stumbled to a halt before the grave, her chest heaving.
“She is not dead,” Lillian shouted, her voice cracking. “Mrs Price is not in that coffin.”
A ripple of disbelief moved through the gathered friends and neighbors. Standing nearest to the grave was Richard Price, Eleanor’s only son, tall, well groomed, his grief perfectly measured. Beside him stood his wife Natalie, dressed in flawless black, her posture rigid with contained irritation.
“This is inappropriate,” Richard said sharply. “Remove her.”
Charlotte stepped forward instinctively. “Lillian,” she whispered urgently. “What are you doing.”
But Lillian did not look at her. Her eyes were fixed on Charlotte instead, filled with fear and something else that made Charlotte’s breath catch.
“Memories live where the heart hides them,” Lillian said loudly.