Navarro Tim Turtle

I watched my own funeral from the back row, and my husband didn't shed a single tear. But when she walked in—the woman who poisoned me—he wept like a child. "Sienna," Adrian Cross choked out, pulling her into his arms in front of my casket. "I'm so glad you came. Today's been unbearable." I stood three feet away, invisible, dead, and somehow still capable of feeling my heart shatter all over again. Three days ago, I was alive. Three days ago, I drank the tea Sienna handed me with that sweet, trembling smile. "You look exhausted, Nora. Let me take care of you." I trusted her. God help me, I actually thanked her. Now I'm a ghost watching my widower comfort my murderer over my dead body. "She brought this on herself," I heard Adrian whisper into Sienna's hair. "If Nora hadn't been so jealous, so cold, none of this stress would've happened. Her heart just... gave out." My heart gave out. That's the official story. The one the coroner signed off on after Adrian made a single phone call and a very generous donation to the hospital's new wing. I drifted closer, screaming words no one could hear. It wasn't my heart, you fool. It was the digitalis she crushed into my chamomile. Check the cup. CHECK THE CUP. But there was no cup anymore. Sienna had washed it herself, weeping prettily, insisting she needed to "keep busy" to cope with her grief. The grief of the woman who killed me. Adrian guided her to the front pew, his hand pressed against the small of her back the way it used to rest against mine—back when he still pretended to love me. "I don't know how I'll survive this," Sienna murmured, dabbing her dry eyes. "You won't be alone," Adrian promised. "I'll take care of you. I should have protected you from her a long time ago." I let out a hollow laugh that echoed through a room that couldn't hear it. Protected her. From me. The wife who gave up her career, her family, and three years of her life for a man who only ever saw me as a placeholder for the woman he really wanted. I'd married Adrian Cross knowing he didn't love me. I told myself it didn't matter. I told myself I could earn it. I was wrong about so many things. But here's the one thing I was finally, terribly right about: The card tucked inside the white roses on my casket—the roses he sent—wasn't addressed to me. I floated forward and read it. "For Sienna. Stay strong. This will all be over soon. — A." This will all be over soon. The words burned into whatever was left of my soul. He'd written my funeral flowers' card to her. He'd planned for this. For an end. A cold certainty settled over me, sharper than death itself. My husband didn't just fail to save me. My husband knew.