The lie was buried with him.
Evelyn Cross stood at the edge of the grave, her black heels sinking slightly into the softened earth, and wondered how many people here believed she was grieving. Rain slid down the smooth surface of her umbrella, dripping in slow, patient rhythms, as if time itself had chosen to pause for this moment. The sky was a dull, oppressive gray, the kind that pressed low against the world and made breathing feel like work.
Perfect weather for a funeral.
Around her, murmurs moved through the small crowd—friends, coworkers, distant relatives, people who had known Daniel Cross in fragments rather than whole truths. They wore solemn faces, practiced sympathy. Some glanced at Evelyn with pity. Others watched her more carefully, curiosity thinly veiled behind condolences.
The widow.
That was who she was now.
Evelyn kept her posture still, her hands folded neatly over the handle of the umbrella. She had practiced this stillness in the mirror. Practiced the expression—eyes soft, lips gently pressed together, grief without spectacle. It had taken weeks to get it right.
The casket rested below, dark and polished, its surface already speckled with rain. Daniel lay inside, dressed in the suit she had chosen. Navy blue. He hated navy blue. Said it made him look older than he was.
She'd smiled when the funeral director asked.
"Yes," she'd said. "That one."
The priest cleared his throat and continued speaking, his voice thin against the open sky. Words like beloved, devoted, taken too soon drifted past Evelyn without meaning. She focused instead on details—the way mud clung to the edge of the grave, the faint smell of wet grass, the crow perched on a nearby headstone watching with intelligent indifference.
When it was time, she stepped forward.
A handful of dirt waited in a small silver tray. Evelyn took it carefully, feeling its weight, its grit. For a moment, she hesitated—not because of sorrow, but because she understood the significance of what she was about to do.
This was the ending everyone expected.
She let the dirt fall.
It struck the casket with a dull, hollow sound.
Final.
A ripple moved through the crowd—quiet sniffles, bowed heads. Someone placed a hand on Evelyn's arm. She didn't look to see who it was. She nodded once, mechanically, and stepped back.
It was done.
By the time the mourners began to disperse, Evelyn's face ached from holding itself together. She accepted condolences, murmured thanks, allowed brief embraces. Each interaction felt like a transaction she had already paid for.
"I'm so sorry for your loss," they said.
If only you knew, she thought.
At last, the cemetery emptied. Cars pulled away, tires crunching against gravel, until only silence remained. The priest offered a final nod and left. Even the crow took flight, wings slicing through the damp air.
Evelyn stood alone.
She folded the umbrella and set it aside, letting the rain soak into her hair and coat. The cold didn't bother her. She had grown accustomed to discomfort.
She stepped closer to the grave and looked down.
"Goodbye, Daniel," she said softly.
It wasn't a lie.
It just wasn't the truth either.
---
The house felt wrong without him.
Not quieter—Daniel had never been loud—but emptier in a way that unsettled Evelyn. As though the walls themselves were aware of his absence and were waiting for something to collapse.
She locked the front door behind her and leaned against it, closing her eyes. The scent of the house wrapped around her: lemon cleaner, old wood, the faint trace of Daniel's cologne lingering stubbornly in the air.
She took off her shoes and placed them side by side, perfectly aligned. Old habits were hard to break.
The living room was neat, almost sterile. She had made sure of that in the weeks leading up to the funeral. No loose papers. No personal clutter. Nothing that invited questions.
Evelyn moved through the house slowly, touching things as she passed—the back of the sofa, the edge of the bookshelf, the cold marble counter in the kitchen. Each contact grounded her, reassured her that this place was still real.
In the bedroom, she paused.
Daniel's side of the bed was untouched, the sheets still crisply tucked. His nightstand stood empty except for a lamp and a book he'd never finished. She hadn't allowed herself to disturb it. Not yet.
She opened the wardrobe.
His clothes hung in orderly rows, just as he'd left them. Suits, shirts, jackets—all pressed, all clean. She ran her fingers along the fabric, stopping at a charcoal-gray coat. The lining was worn thin at the pocket.
Her pulse quickened.
Slowly, deliberately, Evelyn reached inside.
Her fingers closed around something hard and rectangular.
She drew it out.
A phone.
Not his everyday phone—the one the police had catalogued, searched, and returned. This one was older, heavier. Scratched at the edges. Powered off.
Evelyn stared at it for a long moment.
This was where the lie lived.
She sat on the edge of the bed and turned the phone over in her hands. She remembered the night she'd found it—hidden beneath the loose floorboard in the study. Daniel hadn't known she was watching. Hadn't known she'd seen him kneel, lift the board, and tuck the device away like a secret he was afraid to forget.
She pressed the power button.
Nothing happened.
She frowned, then crossed to the dresser and opened the top drawer. From beneath neatly folded scarves, she retrieved a charging cable and plugged the phone in.
The screen flickered to life.
A lock screen appeared.
Not Daniel's face.
A woman.
She was smiling at the camera, hair dark and loose around her shoulders. One arm was raised, as if waving or shielding her eyes from the sun. The background was blurred, indistinct.
Evelyn's stomach tightened.
She didn't recognize the woman.
The phone vibrated.
A notification slid across the screen.
1 NEW MESSAGE
The timestamp read: Today, 6:18 p.m.
Evelyn's breath caught.
That wasn't possible.
Daniel had been pronounced dead three weeks ago.
Her fingers trembled as she unlocked the phone—no password, no fingerprint. Daniel had never imagined anyone else would be holding it.
The message opened automatically.
> You did the right thing.
Now keep your promise.
Evelyn stared at the words until they blurred.
Her promise.
She had made it in a moment of desperation, a moment she had hoped would never echo beyond that night. A promise whispered into darkness, never meant to survive daylight.
Yet here it was.
Alive.
Demanding.
The phone vibrated again.
Another message appeared.
> If you tell anyone, you won't be the only widow.
The room seemed to tilt.
Evelyn stood abruptly, the phone slipping from her grasp and landing on the bed. Her heart pounded so hard she felt it in her throat. She paced the room, running a hand through her damp hair, trying to think.
This wasn't grief.
This was consequence.
Daniel's death hadn't ended anything. It had only shifted the weight—from his shoulders to hers.
She stopped pacing and looked at the phone.
At the woman on the screen.
At the messages waiting beneath the surface.
Evelyn Cross had buried her husband.
But the truth refused to stay underground.
And the last lie—the one she told the world, the police, and herself—was beginning to crack.