PART I — THE FUNERAL AND THE SUITCASE
The November snow fell soft and silent over Crown Hill Cemetery, each flake a whisper against the dark suits and black dresses gathered around the grave. I stood at the edge of the open earth, one hand resting on Quinn’s small shoulder, while the pastor’s voice droned through prayers I couldn’t hold onto. My mind kept slipping backward—three days ago, when someone told me Clare’s car had gone off I‑70 near Morrison.
Heather stood beside me, face buried in her hands, shoulders shaking with sobs. My nineteen‑year‑old daughter had been inconsolable since the call. Now, as they lowered Clare’s casket into frozen ground, Heather’s grief poured out raw and desperate.
“Mommy’s sleeping,” Quinn said suddenly, her little voice cutting through the ceremony. “When will she wake up?”
I knelt, pulling my youngest close. “Mommy’s not sleeping, sweetheart,” I whispered.
“She’s gone to heaven.”
The scent of incense hung heavy in the cold air, mixing with fresh earth and distant wood smoke. Judith Monroe—Clare’s best friend since college—stepped forward and placed a white lily on the casket. Her eyes were red and swollen.
She’d been the one helping me make arrangements when I couldn’t function. Our neighbor, Phyllis Rutherford, touched my arm as people dispersed. “I’m so sorry, Vincent,” she murmured.
“If you need anything at all, I’m just downstairs.”
I nodded, unable to speak. The drive back to Cherry Creek was silent except for Quinn’s occasional sniffles. I kept glancing in the rearview mirror at Heather, who sat perfectly still, staring out the window.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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