KATHLEEN
The cemetery was silent except for the wind combing through the grass.
Kathleen knelt in front of the weathered headstone, her fingers tracing the engraved letters:
**ELENA VASILIEV**
**BELOVED MOTHER, BRILLIANT MIND**
Alina crouched beside her, placing a single white orchid on the grave. "Was she nice like you?"
Kathleen's throat tightened. "Nicer. She… sang me Russian lullabies when I couldn't sleep."
Behind them, Carl stood guard, his gaze scanning the tree line. He'd insisted on sweeping the area twice for threats, but Kathleen knew the real danger was the past—raw and unearthed.
Alina patted the headstone like it was a friend. "I think she's happy you're not alone anymore."
Kathleen's breath hitched.
Carl's hand settled on her shoulder, warm and steady.
For the first time in twenty years, she let herself weep for the woman she'd lost—and the family she'd found.
---
CARL
Carl hated cemeteries.
They reminded him of cold rooms and empty promises. Of his mother's funeral, where Lionel had gripped his twelve-year-old shoulder and hissed, *"Stop crying. Harris men don't grieve."*
Now, watching Kathleen mourn, he felt something dangerous—*rage*. Not the cold, controlled kind. The kind that made him want to dig Lionel out of his prison cell and break him all over again.
Alina tugged his sleeve. "Daddy, can we plant flowers for Grandma too?"
Carl froze.
Kathleen looked up, her tear-streaked face softening. "You don't have to—"
"Yes." The word tore from him. "We will."
He knelt beside them, the grass staining his knees, and told Alina about the grandmother she'd never meet—the woman who'd hidden her laughter behind her hand when Lionel wasn't looking.
A second grave, unmarked but unforgotten.
*I remember you, Mom.*
---
AVA
Ava watched from the car, her phone pressed to her ear.
"They're vulnerable," the voice on the line rasped. *Lionel's lawyer.* "Strike now."
Ava smirked. "Oh, I will."
She hung up—and dialed the *Veloria Times*.
"This is Ava Lopez. I've got proof Lionel Harris ordered Elena Vasiliev's murder."
The reporter gasped. "*The hit-and-run was deliberate?*"
Ava lit a cigarette, exhaling toward the cemetery where her family grieved.
"Send a photographer. The story drops tonight."