The next day, we attend the funeral. It’s small—Martha never married, had no children of her own. She poured all her love into me and other children she cared for instead. I stand between Dom and Liam, Ryder’s hand steady on my back, as they lower her casket. I should be crying, but I’m hollow, remembering another funeral when the same woman in the casket was holding my hand.
My mother’s service had been massive, performative—Mayor Pike’s beloved wife, taken by cancer. I was six, confused by the notion of death. Martha had held my hand then too, whispering that she’d always protect me.
Three months later, he hit me for the first time.
“I need to go to the house,” I tell them afterward. “Martha kept a small apartment over our garage after she retired. My father kept the house he shared with my mother, but rarely went back there after we moved into the city. There are things...”
They understand without explanation, forming a protective triangle around me as we approach my childhood prison. The house looms, white columns and pristine landscaping masking its ugliness.
“I’ll show you where the garage apartment is,” I say, leading them around back, trying not to look at the kitchen window where he’d once thrown a plate that shattered against my cheek.
Martha’s space is untouched, frozen in time. Books, knitting, and photos of me everywhere. I move to her desk, opening drawers almost mechanically, when I find them—a stack of sealed envelopes tied with faded ribbon.
My name in Martha’s careful handwriting.
I open the first letter with trembling fingers, scanning her words:
I witnessed Mayor Pike strike Cora today when she spilled her juice. This is the fourth incident this month...
“Oh my god,” I breathe, flipping through more envelopes. “She documented everything. For years.”
Liam gently takes one, his eyes scanning the contents. “Cora, these are dated, detailed accounts. She was creating evidence.”
I clutch the letters to my chest, tears finally breaking free. “She kept everything. All these years, she was building a case against him.”
My fingers trace Martha’s handwriting—steady, intentional, just like her presence in my life had been. Even after Pike forced her into retirement, Martha had remained my lifeline. Weekly calls. Birthday cards with twenty-dollar bills tucked inside. Coffee dates where she’d study my face carefully, asking questions that made me both uncomfortable and grateful.
“Are you sleeping, honey?” she’d ask, or “How’s that bruise healing?” Never pushing too hard but never looking away either.
“She’d text me after every public appearance with my father,” I whisper. “Checking if I was okay. I thought she was just being motherly, but she was... documenting. Protecting me even when she wasn’t there.”
Dom’s hand squeezes mine. “She loved you.”
I pick up another letter and open it, as I read the words, my entire world feels like it’s crumbling to ash.
While I don’t have evidence, I am certain that William Pike murdered his own wife. There have been things I’ve overhead in this house that are damning, I just don’t know how to find the evidence…
I drop the letter, my heart galloping at a ridiculous speed. “Surely not…” But then, why not? My father has done terrible things… Is it possible he’s a murderer too?
Liam grabs it and sighs heavily. “This isn’t the first I’ve heard this.”
My brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
“Your father’s ex-girlfriend, Melissa Connor, told me that he once told her that your mother didn’t die of cancer, as everyone thinks. That your mom was going to leave your father and take you with her. He saidsometimes accidents happen to women who don’t understand their place.”
Acute pain clutches at my chest. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Liam runs a hand through his hair. “I’ve been compiling evidence to be sure. I had to unseal post-mortem records foryour mother, and I’m still waiting for the results. I didn’t want to tell you until I knew she was sure, but this makes it even more likely.”
I can’t help it. I just sob. My entire body is shaking. My father has always been a monster in my eyes, but if he murdered my mother, if he took away the one good thing in my life, then he’s more than a monster. He’s soulless. Heartless. And deserves to rot in hell.
Ryder scoops me up in his arms. “It’s okay, princess. We’ve got you. Let’s get you home.”
“The letters!” I gasp through my sobbing.
Liam nods, carefully gathering them. “We will take them home. No use lingering in Pike’s home longer than necessary, even if he doesn’t live here anymore.”
As Ryder carries me, I take one last look around Martha’s little sanctuary. The afghan she knitted during my high school years. The collection of teacups we’d built together.
