“You look terrible,” he remarked, not even glancing up as he poured the dark, ruby liquid into a crystal balloon glass. He didn’t offer me one. He took a sip, closing his eyes in a theatrical display of appreciation. “I had to cancel on the board. Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to tell a table of venture capitalists that my wife is too depressed to host a simple dinner?”
“My mother is dying, David,” I whispered, my voice cracked and completely devoid of moisture.
He sighed, an exaggerated exhalation of pure martyrdom. “We all die, Sarah. But life goes on. Make sure you’re properly dressed for the funeral tomorrow; the press might be there. I need this to look dignified.” He casually adjusted his wrist, the gold face of the Rolex Daytona catching the dim cellar light. It was a gift I had bought him for our first anniversary. He wore it like a crown, acting every bit the lord of the manor, completely blind to the cold, dead look that was crystallizing in my eyes. He saw my silence as submission. He mistook my quiet grace for a lack of spine.
I turned without another word and walked up the floating glass staircase to the master suite. My mother’s empire was built on a foundation of ruthless, calculated observation. Never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake, she used to say. I pulled my black funeral dress from the cedar closet, laying it out on the silk duvet.
As I packed my small clutch for the morning, the faint, muffled sound of David’s voice drifted up through the HVAC vents. He was on his phone in the hallway, his tone dropped to a conspiratorial, intimate murmur.
“She’ll be gone all afternoon,” he whispered, a smirk evident in the cadence of his voice. “Bring your things. It’s time we upgrade your living situation.”
The earth in Los Angeles is inherently dry, turning to a fine, choking dust when disturbed. I watched as the cemetery workers tossed the first shovelfuls of dirt onto my mother’s polished mahogany casket. The dull thud of the soil hitting the wood was the finality I had been dreading for two years. A suffocating heat pressed down on the private cemetery, the air thick with the scent of formal floral arrangements and the heavy, metallic tang of profound grief.
I stood completely alone under the canopy.
Thirty minutes prior, before the minister had even finished his closing prayer, David had leaned over, smelling of expensive cologne and peppermint. “I have a sudden emergency meeting with the developers,” he muttered, patting my arm with the mechanical stiffness of a politician kissing a baby. “I’ll see you at home. Don’t linger.” He had practically jogged back to his waiting sedan, eager to escape the messy, inconvenient reality of human mortality.
The dirt had barely settled onto the bronze handles of the casket when I felt a sharp vibration against my thigh. I pulled the phone from my black leather clutch.
