My name is Emily Carter, and there is a moment in my life that refuses to fade away no matter how much time passes.
It is the moment when the doors of Grace Hill Community Church opened during my sister's funeral, and Jason Reed walked in arm in arm with his lover.
Even now, years later, I can still smell the lilies.
They were everywhere that day. White lilies in tall vases along the aisle, white lilies on the polished wooden coffin, white lilies filling the church with a sweet scent so intense it made my stomach churn.
My sister Lily Reed had always loved flowers. She had a small garden behind her house, where she grew roses and tulips in the harsh Texas soil.
But lilies?
Lilies were funeral flowers.
And now they were everywhere.
The church was packed. Our town of Willow Creek, Texas, had fewer than six thousand inhabitants, and news traveled fast. When someone died, especially someone young, the whole community came together.
But Lily's death was not only tragic.
It was unfair.
She was thirty-two weeks pregnant.
His son —my nephew— already had a name.
Noah.
The official version was simple.
He had fallen down the stairs.
A tragic accident.
That's what Jason told everyone.
That's what the police report said.
That was what the pastor repeated gently from the pulpit.
But I never believed it.
Not for a second.
The coffin
The coffin was closed.
That detail alone had sparked rumors throughout the town.
Normally, coffins were not closed unless the wounds were serious.
When I asked the funeral director why, he shifted uncomfortably and said it was the family's decision.
Jason's decision.
My mother sat next to me on the first bench, clutching a damp handkerchief.
Her shoulders trembled as the organ music played softly.
"He was here last Sunday," Mom whispered through tears. "He brought lemon tart."
My father sat on his other side, stiff and silent.
Dad had always been a quiet man, but the pain had completely emptied him.
I stared at the coffin.
My older sister was inside.
The girl who used to braid my hair before going to school.
The woman who used to call me every Tuesday night just to talk about nothing.
And the baby she carried in her womb.
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