HE WOULDN’T LEAVE THE CASKET—NOT UNTIL HE COULD SMELL THE TRUTH

The funeral home smelled of roses, old wood, and the faintest hint of something deeper—something decaying beneath layers of polished veneer and artificial peace.

Matthew stood over the casket, his hands gripping the edges so hard his knuckles turned white. The others had already left, their murmured condolences trailing behind them like smoke. But he wasn’t leaving. Not yet. Not until he could smell the truth.

His father’s face was too perfect. Too smooth. The undertaker had done a fine job hiding the bruises, the swelling. A “heart attack,” they said. Sudden. Unexpected.

Bullshit.

Matthew’s father had never been weak. Never frail. And he had never, ever trusted the people who now whispered about “natural causes.”

He leaned closer, inhaling deeply. The stench of formaldehyde filled his nostrils, but beneath it, he caught something else—faint but unmistakable.

Whiskey.

Matthew’s father never drank.

His pulse pounded in his ears. He scanned the room. No one. Just silence, heavy and waiting. He reached out, hesitating only a second before pressing his fingers against the stiff collar of the funeral suit. Slowly, carefully, he peeled it back.

Dark bruises bloomed beneath his father’s chin.

A shiver ran through him. He knew what that meant. Someone had grabbed him. Someone had squeezed until the life drained from his body.

Matthew exhaled sharply, glancing at the doorway. Still alone.

His hands moved lower, searching for more proof. The suit was crisp, too crisp—pressed to perfection, as if smoothing out the truth. But they couldn’t hide the scent. Not completely.

Then he found it.

A faint, acrid tinge beneath the cologne. Bitter almonds.

Cyanide.

His stomach turned. Someone had poisoned him. And then, when that wasn’t enough, they had choked him to be sure.

Matthew swallowed hard, his breath coming fast. His father hadn’t just died. He’d been murdered.

And Matthew had a very good idea who did it.

The door creaked. Footsteps.

He froze.

A voice, smooth and casual, slid into the room. “Still here, Matthew?”

He turned slowly. There she was.

His father’s wife.

Not his mother—no, she had been long gone. But this woman, the one who had slipped into their lives like a shadow, had always been too perfect, too patient. And now, as she stepped forward, her eyes gleaming with something between amusement and warning, he knew.

She knew what he had just discovered.

He forced himself to breathe, to play along. “Just saying goodbye.”

She smiled. “Of course. But grief is exhausting, isn’t it? You should get some rest.”

He nodded, slipping his hands into his pockets to hide the tremor. He turned to go, forcing himself not to run. Not yet.

Because he wasn’t done.

He had smelled the truth.

And now, he was going to make her choke on it.

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