“No,” I said. “You just helped plan it.”
Evan looked at the coffin, then at me, searching for mercy.
He found none.
“Margaret,” he said, suddenly gentle. “Emma wouldn’t want this.”
I stepped close enough for only him to hear.
“Emma wanted peace. I want justice.”
His hands were cuffed beneath the stained glass, in front of God, his mistress, his board, and the daughter he had thought too silent to speak.
Three months later, Evan was indicted for manslaughter, coercion, fraud, and conspiracy. Celeste took a deal and still went to prison. ValeTech removed Evan in an emergency vote led by Emma’s twelve percent.
I sold the Lake Arden house and used the money to open the Emma Ellis Center for Women, a safe place for mothers with nowhere to run.
Every spring, I visit Emma’s grave at sunrise. I bring white lilies and one blue ribbon for the grandson I never held.
The grass is quiet there.
Peaceful.
And when the wind moves through the trees, I no longer hear Evan laughing.
I hear my daughter’s voice.
Fight smart.
So I did.
