Before I could process the full weight of what I was seeing, the phone vibrated again.

A shadow slipping between two rows of headstones.

I didn’t hesitate.

“Stop!” I shouted, already moving.

My heels sank into the soft earth as I ran, kicking them off mid-stride so I could move faster. My dress caught on branches, on stone edges, but I kept going.

Whoever it was—they weren’t expecting me to chase.

The figure stumbled slightly, and in that moment, I closed the distance.

“Stop!” I yelled again, grabbing at their arm.

They twisted sharply, trying to pull away.

But I held on.

We both lost balance and fell hard onto the damp grass.

For a second, everything blurred—cold, impact, breath knocked out of me.

Then I looked up.

And my blood ran cold.

“Andrew?”

He froze.

My husband—still in the same suit he wore to the funeral—stared down at me, his face pale, eyes wide like he’d been caught in something far worse than an affair.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded, my voice shaking with disbelief and rage.

He didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he looked at the phone in my hand.

“You came,” he said quietly.

The calmness in his voice made something inside me snap.

“Of course I came!” I shouted. “You used my dead father to drag me out here in the middle of the night! What is wrong with you?!”

Andrew swallowed hard, glancing around as if the graves themselves were listening.

“Keep your voice down,” he said urgently.

That was it.