1.At my daughter's funeral, my son-in-law pointed at his daughters and announced, “They’re going into foster care. I deserve a fresh start with my new fiancée.” More than 200 mourners stood frozen in silence. He had no idea the girls had already hidden their mother's notebook, secret recordings, and one final envelope that would destroy his wedding before he ever reached the altar.

I turned to the girls. "Stay in this room. Lock the door from the inside and do not open it for anyone except me."

Lucy immediately pushed Rachel and April into the walk-in closet, positioning herself in front of them like a sentry. "We're not giving him the notebook, Grandpa. Even if he breaks the door down."

"He won't," I promised.

I hurried downstairs, my heart hammering against my ribs, anger replacing the fog of grief. When I reached the front door, Arthur was pounding his fist against the heavy mahogany paneling, rattling the brass knocker.

"Open the door, Charles! I’m not playing games with you!"

I unlatched the deadbolt and pulled the door open just enough to block the entryway with my frame. "You have five seconds to get off my porch before I call the Chatham County Sheriff, Arthur."

Arthur tried to shoulder his way in, but I stood my ground. Up close, he smelled faintly of scotch and expensive perfume—a sharp, sugary floral scent that certainly didn't belong to my deceased daughter.

"Listen to me, old man," Arthur sneered, lowering his voice into a vicious whisper. "Rose was delusional at the end. She was stealing documents from my home office. She took financial statements, hard drives, and personal journals. I know she gave them to Lucy. Hand them over right now, or I swear to God I’ll have CPS pull those girls out of your house tonight on kidnapping charges."

I stared at him, feeling a terrifying coldness wash over me. "You publicly surrendered them at her grave, Arthur. Over two hundred witnesses heard you say you were handing them to Child Protective Services on Monday so you could start a fresh life with your mistress."

Arthur’s jaw clenched. "What I say at a emotional moment is irrelevant in court. Legally, I am their father. I own everything in that house, including whatever lies Rose fed those kids. Give me the bag."

"Get off my property," I said quietly.

Behind Arthur, the passenger door of the Mercedes opened. Vanessa stepped out into the humid night light. She was striking, young, and utterly devoid of warmth. She wore a ivory linen dress—a choice shockingly inappropriate for a day when the mother of her partner's children was laid to rest.

"Arthur, darling, leave it," Vanessa called out, her tone laced with high-pitched impatience. "We have the caterers coming to the estate at ten tomorrow to finalize the wedding venue. Let the old man keep the brats for the weekend. We'll have the lawyers serve him with an injunction on Monday morning. They can't do anything with whatever nonsense Rose wrote anyway."

Arthur looked back at me, a cruel, triumphant smirk spreading across his face. "She's right. Keep them for forty-eight hours, Charles. Feed them, tuck them in. Because on Monday, when my legal team files for full control of Rose’s estate and her trust fund, you won't have a dime left to fight me. And those girls will be in a state facility before nightfall."

He turned on his heel, walked back to his vehicle, and pulled away, the tires screeching against the asphalt.

I closed the door, locked it, and leaned my forehead against the cool wood. My daughter was barely cold in the ground, and already her husband was planning a lavish wedding and plotting to liquidate her memory.

I walked back upstairs and knocked gently on the bedroom door. "It's Grandpa. It's safe."