My mother’s sobs rose like a chorus, “Don’t even bury her yet, and you’re already giving away her things.”
My ears rang, but the words cut clear: “$500,000 life insurance—it’s already filed.”
“What about the $42,000 transfer we found?” Daniel snapped, eyes darting to the ledger on the side table.
“She said it was a business payment,” Natalie echoed, but her voice cracked, “It’s too clean.”
My aunts whispered prayers, their hands trembling over the candle flames, “May God forgive us if we’re wrong.”
In the dim, I sensed the tension, the accusation hanging in the air, a hidden suspicion that perhaps my death was staged.
Every syllable pressed against my cramped ribs, a relentless tide of doubt and betrayal.
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