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.