The morning of the memorial, I woke before the nurses changed shifts.
For a moment, I forgot where I was.
Then I felt the bandage across my abdomen and heard the steady beep of the monitor beside the bed.
The fire came back in pieces.
The locked door.
The orange light.
Grant beside the SUV.
Brooke's pale coat.
I sat still until my breathing slowed.
I wasn't going to let those memories decide what I did next.
A nurse helped me wash and change.
I couldn't manage the buttons on my own, so she dressed me in a simple black outfit that didn't pull at my stitches.
Sheriff Shaw had arranged for a plain wheelchair and a route into the chapel through a rear entrance.
Nathan arrived carrying a garment bag and a paper cup of coffee.
He set the cup on the table, then helped the nurse position the chair beside my bed.
"You look tired," he said.
"I feel worse than I look."
He gave a small nod.
"That's fair."
I appreciated that he didn't tell me to be brave.
I had heard enough instructions about courage from people who weren't the ones lying awake at night wondering whether their husband had ever loved them.
The nurse checked my incision and reminded me not to strain myself.
My doctor repeated the restrictions.
I promised to follow them.
I meant to.
Then I looked at the livestream on the tablet.
The chapel was filling.
People from Northstar had arrived in dark suits and dresses. Several pilots stood together near the back, their hands clasped in front of them.
I recognized the chief flight nurse from our western base.
I recognized two mechanics who had helped my mother buy the company's first used helicopter.
I recognized board members who had sat across from me for years, arguing about budgets and staffing.
They had come to mourn me.
I had no idea how many of them believed Grant's story.
At eleven o'clock, he stepped behind the podium.
His suit was immaculate.
He had shaved carefully, and his hair was arranged the way he wore it for television interviews.
I watched him glance at the empty casket before turning to the audience.
"Lena cared about this company because she understood what happened when people were left without help," he said.
He paused.
"She believed every life deserved a chance."
The words were true.
That was what made them so ugly.
Grant had taken the things I believed in and arranged them around his own ambition.
He spoke about my mother.
He spoke about our marriage.
He spoke about the child we had expected to bring home in a few weeks.
He told the audience that he had lost the family he had spent his life building.
I gripped the arms of the wheelchair.
Nathan stood behind me, silent.
Grant lowered his head.
For several seconds, no one moved.
Then he lifted the microphone again.
"I know Lena would want Northstar to keep moving forward. The people who depend on us cannot afford to stop because we've suffered a loss."
A few people nodded.
He had always known how to make selfishness sound like responsibility.
"I've asked the board to let me serve as acting chief executive while we work through this difficult period."
I saw two board members exchange glances.
Grant didn't notice.
Or he pretended not to.
Then he turned toward Brooke.
"Brooke Ellis has agreed to take on the role of chief operating officer. We will work together to protect Lena's legacy and give this company the steady leadership it needs."
Brooke stood beside the first row.
Her face was pale.
She looked at Grant, then toward the floor.
The livestream camera shifted slightly, catching her hands twisting together.
I wondered whether she was frightened of the deputies or of the man standing beside her.
Perhaps both.
Grant thanked everyone for coming.
He spoke as if the future had already been settled.
I looked at Sheriff Shaw.
She was standing near the rear entrance with two deputies.
She gave me a small nod.
"The team is in position," she said quietly.
I placed my hands on the wheelchair's armrests.
The pain was already building in my abdomen, but I pushed myself upright.
Nathan stepped forward.
"Take your time."
I took his arm.
The chapel doors opened.
The first people to see me were standing near the back.
A woman in a gray dress turned, saw my face, and stopped moving.
Her mouth opened.
The man beside her followed her gaze.
He took one step backward.
Someone whispered my name.
Then another person gasped.
The sound moved through the chapel faster than I could have walked down the aisle.
Heads turned.
Conversations stopped.
The organ fell silent.
I kept moving.
My legs felt weak, and every small shift of my weight pulled at the stitches beneath my clothes.
Nathan walked beside me.
Sheriff Shaw followed a few paces behind.
The empty casket stood at the front of the chapel.
Grant was still holding the microphone when he saw me.
His face changed so quickly that I almost missed it.
First came confusion.
Then disbelief.
Then something colder.
He gripped the podium with both hands.
"Lena?"
I stopped beside the casket.
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
I had imagined this entrance in my hospital room. I had imagined telling him what I thought of him, listing every lie, asking how he could have looked at me through that window and walked away.
But standing in front of him, I found I had no speech prepared.
I was too tired to perform.
"You told them I was dead."
Grant stared at me.
"How are you here?"
It was the first honest question he'd asked in days.
I looked at the casket.
"You should have checked."
A murmur passed through the audience.
Grant stepped away from the podium.
He looked toward the deputies, then back at me.
His expression softened as he approached, the same familiar look he used when he wanted to make a disagreement disappear.
"Lena, you've been through something terrible. You don't know what's happening."
I watched him reach for my hand.
I pulled it away.
"Don't touch me."
He stopped.
For a moment, his face showed the anger beneath the concern.
Then he turned toward the audience.
"My wife has suffered serious trauma. We need to get her medical attention."
Sheriff Shaw stepped forward.
"She has medical care. You need to remain where you are."
Grant ignored her.
He looked at Brooke.
She had moved several feet away from him.
I placed my phone on top of the empty casket.
The screen showed the recording Sheriff Shaw had approved for the memorial.
I pressed play.
Grant's voice filled the chapel.
"After the service, the search will die down. We get control of Northstar, wait until the legal process catches up, and then the insurance money comes through."
No one moved.
The recording continued.
Brooke asked what would happen if investigators discovered I had escaped.
Grant laughed and dismissed the possibility.
When the recording ended, the silence felt heavier than the sound had.
Grant looked at Brooke.
"You recorded that?"
She said nothing.
Sheriff Shaw approached him.
"Grant Morgan, you are under arrest on suspicion of attempted murder, conspiracy, aggravated arson, and insurance fraud."
One deputy took his arm.
Grant jerked away.
"This is ridiculous! Brooke planned the whole thing. She's trying to save herself."
The deputy secured his wrist.
Grant turned toward me.
"You don't understand what she's done. You don't understand what that man has been telling you."
He pointed at Nathan.
"Ask him why Evelyn spent your whole life keeping him away from you."
The words landed harder than I expected.
Nathan's hand tightened on the wheelchair.
Grant saw the reaction.
For the first time that morning, he smiled without pretending to be sad.
Even with deputies holding him, he believed he had found a way to hurt me.
I looked at Nathan.
He didn't deny what Grant had said.
He didn't explain it either.
His face had gone still, and his eyes had dropped toward the floor.
I turned back to my husband.
"You knew about him?"
Grant's smile widened.
"There's a lot your mother never told you."
Sheriff Shaw ordered the deputies to move him.
He continued talking as they led him away, insisting that I was confused and that Brooke had manipulated everyone.
The chapel doors closed behind them.
Brooke remained near the first row, surrounded by investigators.
Nobody approached the casket.
Nobody spoke.
I looked down at the polished wood where Grant had rested his hand while he pretended to grieve for me.
Then I looked at Nathan.
He stood beside my wheelchair with his hands folded, waiting for me to ask what I already knew I needed to ask.
My husband had tried to kill me.
He had tried to take my company.
He had used our unborn son as part of a plan to collect an insurance payment.
And now, as the people who had come to mourn me watched in stunned silence, I realized that the man who had saved my life was carrying a truth about my family that I still didn't understand.
I turned toward the rear entrance.
"Take me back to the hospital," I told Nathan.
Then I looked at him again.
"But you're going to tell me everything."
Click here to continue reading: PART 5: My Mother Had Spent Her Last Months Preparing for a Danger I Refused to See, and My Husband Had Known About My Father All Along
I Thought My Husband Would Come Back for Me Until I Saw Him Standing Beside the Burning Cabin With Her
Part 4 of 12
