After I left the hospital, Tristan arranged my mother's funeral for me. He greeted mourners and looked appropriately solemn, but there was no true sorrow in his eyes. Staring at my mother's warm smile in the portrait felt like a knife in my chest.
I had planned to make Hillary pay—to ease my mother's soul. But Tristan ruined that plan completely.
"Mom, I'm sorry..." I whispered, nails digging into my palm until the pain steadied me. "Wait a little longer. I will make them pay!"
——
Footsteps approached behind me.
"Meredith, I arranged the most dignified funeral for your mother. She'll rest in peace. Don't be too upset." Tristan's tone was detached, as if he spoke of a stranger.
He knelt beside me to reach for the incense, but I slapped his hand away.
"Don't touch my mother's things with your filthy hands."
His brow tightened. He swallowed and tried to control his temper. "You're hurt—don't get worked up." His voice was laced with practiced tenderness, and it made me sick.
"What about Hillary? Aren't you going to explain?" I demanded.