Bryce had mastered the art of playing the victim, and Layla was his eternal, willing audience. In the past, I had endured his theatrics for her sake.
But I was done enduring.
"Layla, I will say this once," I said, my voice low and dangerously even. "Get him out of here."
A murmur rippled through the guests. Everyone present knew the truth: Bryce was the one who had run my mother down. Fingers pointed; whispers of disgust circulated the room.
Hearing the crowd turn against him, the mask of the aggrieved child slipped from Bryce's face. His expression twisted into a sneer.
"She was just an old woman," he spat, his voice dripping with contempt. "Even if I hadn't hit her, she would have died of old age eventually! If Sis hadn't made me come here to burn incense, do you think I'd bother with this place?"
He strode to the altar. Before anyone could react, his hands clamped around my mother's urn.
"You won't let me burn incense? Fine." He lifted the vessel high above his head, a manic glint in his eyes. "Then no one burns anything!"
"Don't!"
My heart slammed against my ribs. I lunged forward, but I was too late.
Crash.