“I was instructed to deliver this to the authorities,” he said. “It contains footage from a camera Abigail installed at the top of the staircase. She wanted the truth preserved.”
Brandon stared at the flash drive. Sweat gathered on his forehead.
Tiffany slowly removed her hand from his arm and slid sideways on the pew, as if distance could save her.
The service ended in chaos. People whispered, cried, argued, recorded. Police officers approached Mr. Lawson. My parents clung to each other. I walked outside into sunlight that felt too bright.
Two weeks later I sat in a small room at the county station. A detective, Mr. Lawson, my parents, and I gathered around a laptop.
The video played.
Abigail stood at the top of the stairs. She held her phone. Her belly was round. Her voice shook.
“You cannot keep lying,” she said. “I am leaving. Isaac and I will go to my parents.”
Brandon stood below. His voice was sharp and cruel.
“You are not taking my child,” he shouted. “You are not leaving me looking like a fool.”
He rushed up the steps. He grabbed her wrist. She tried to pull away. His arm moved. Her body tilted. A scream. Then the sound of impact.
My mother sobbed. My father held her tightly. I stared at the screen, unable to blink.
The detective paused the video.
“This is not an accident,” he said. “This is a criminal case.”
Brandon was arrested three days later. Charges followed. Domestic violence. Manslaughter. Obstruction. His real estate partners cut ties. His friends vanished. Tiffany disappeared from town overnight.
At the court hearing, Brandon entered in an orange uniform, wrists bound. He looked smaller than I remembered. He glanced toward me as he passed.
“Sarah,” he whispered. “Tell them I did not mean it.”
I stood.
“You walked into my sister funeral with your lover on your arm,” I said. “You lied while she lay in a casket. You meant more than enough.”
He looked away.
Months passed. The legal process moved forward. Mr. Lawson guided me through paperwork and meetings. Because there was no surviving child, the trust transferred to me, exactly as Abigail had written. I signed documents with shaking hands, aware that every signature carried the weight of my sister voice.
I moved into her house. At first I could not climb the stairs without feeling dizzy. The walls still held her laughter. Her favorite mug sat on the counter. Her slippers rested by the couch.