He pulled up the chapel feed.
I held up the note.
"I need to know who it was."
He hesitated. "I'm not sure if—"
"I paid for the room. He's my husband. Please."
He sighed and turned to the monitors. He pulled up the chapel feed, rewound, then fast-forwarded.
Dark hair, tight bun.
People flickered across the screen. Hugs, flowers, hands on the casket.
"Slow down," I said.
A woman in a black dress stepped up to the casket alone. Dark hair, tight bun.
She glanced around, then slipped her hand under Greg's, tucked something in, and patted his chest.
Susan.
I snapped a picture of the paused frame.
Susan Miller. His "work lifesaver." She owned the supply company that delivered to his office. I'd met her a few times at events. Thin, efficient, always laughing just a little too hard.
At that moment, she was the woman sneaking a note into my husband's coffin.
I snapped a picture of the paused frame.
"Thank you," I told Luis.
