A charred necklace lay there, twisted but still recognizable. He knew it too well. He had given it to Eleanor on their first anniversary.
The sheet covering her supposed remains seemed to press down on him like a weight.
Every fiber of him screamed that this wasn’t her—that this couldn’t be her—but the evidence kept piling up.
The police had confirmed fingerprints. Her belongings were found at the scene. The ashes. The scorched metal.
A sharp crack shattered the air. Pain bloomed across his cheek.
“What the hell—” He snapped his head toward the source. Delilah stood there, her manicured hand still raised, eyes blazing with fury.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” she shot back, her voice laced with accusation. “I just slapped you to wake you up. You’ve been standing here acting like her husband since you got the call!”
Nathaniel’s chest tightened. “Well… I am her husband.”
Delilah’s lips curled into a mocking smile. “Oh, so now you admit it? Now that she’s dead, you’re ready to drop the ‘Harold’ act and go back to being Nathaniel? What’s the plan—suddenly announce she was your wife all along? Don’t tell me you’re having some moral crisis now.”