My mother-in-law shoved a folder into my hands between the funeral wreaths—“Sign the house and car over to Lydia”—and when I refused, her husband slammed me into the wall like my grief didn’t count.

“Do it,” I said into the phone.

That was it. Two words.

Within ten minutes, Ray’s phone rang.

I watched his face change as he listened—color draining, posture cracking—until he exploded loud enough for the entire funeral home to turn.

“We’re ruined!” he bellowed.

The scream bounced off the walls like a siren.

Paula froze, like the floor had turned to ice. Lydia’s smile vanished so fast it looked snatched off her face.

People finally started looking.

Too late.

Paula’s voice lost its edge for the first time. “What did you do?” she whispered.