Eleanor let out a primal, guttural shriek. It wasn’t human; it was the sound of a demon being dragged back to the underworld. Her knees buckled beneath her. She collapsed onto the cold stone floor, her manicured hands tearing frantically at her diamond veil in sheer panic, ripping the expensive fabric to shreds. “It’s a lie! It’s a deepfake! He’s lying!” she screamed, spit flying from her lips, crawling backward away from the altar.
The two imposing men who had escorted Attorney Sterling stepped forward. In perfect, synchronized movements, they unbuttoned their tailored jackets. The silver of police badges caught the fluorescent light of the projector.
“Eleanor Vance,” the taller detective stated, his voice easily cutting through her shrieks, “you are under arrest for the premeditated murder of your son.”
The sharp, metallic click of handcuffs echoing through the sacred walls of the cathedral was the most beautiful sound I had ever heard. The detectives hauled the shrieking, thrashing matriarch to her feet. She kicked wildly, her designer heels flying off into the aisles.
The paralyzing fog of grief that had bound me for four days evaporated, burned away by the fiery, blinding light of David’s love and absolute justice. He had shielded me from beyond the veil of death. He had secured the fortress. I was no longer the fragile, terrified widow. The power he had legally and spiritually bestowed upon me flowed into my veins.
I didn’t run. I didn’t cry. I walked calmly, with measured, deliberate steps, over to where Chloe stood.
Chloe was petrified, backed into the corner of the altar steps, shaking so violently her teeth chattered. She looked at me, not with disdain, but with the hollow, wide-eyed terror of prey cornered by a lioness.
