Chapter 3 - The Silent Witness
From the corner of my eye, I saw my mother start forward, her face pale with fury and terror. She was ready to tear Daniel apart, funeral or not. But I quickly raised one hand, palm out, stopping her in her tracks. I did not raise my hand because I was afraid of my husband. I raised it because of the small, obsidian brooch pinned to the collar of my high-necked black dress.
It looked like a vintage piece of mourning jewelry, a dark stone reflecting no light. In reality, it was a custom-modified high-definition recording device. The tiny lens hidden within its facets had captured everything: Daniel’s cruel kiss, his booming accusation, the swift violence of his hand, and the muffled, damning threat he had just hissed into my ear.
Three days earlier, the local police had officially ruled the twins’ deaths a tragic carbon monoxide accident. Daniel had sat in our living room, weeping into his hands, and told the sympathetic officers a story that made me sick to my stomach. He claimed I had left our beautiful children sleeping alone in the remote lake house while I drove into town to buy more wine. He told them he had arrived too late, finding the house filled with deadly gas and his children unresponsive.
It was an incredibly convincing performance. The detectives had looked at me with thinly veiled disgust.
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It was also completely impossible.
I stood in the chapel, feeling the blood dry on my teeth, and let Daniel play the martyr. He didn't know that my silence wasn't submission. My silence was a countdown. Every second he spent gloating was another piece of evidence quietly locking him into a cage of his own making.
