Claire didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. The shovel did the announcing for her as she set its tip on the asphalt between two identical red sports cars. “Good evening,” she said, her eyes on Daniel. “Did you really think you could bury me so easily?”

A breeze lifted the hem of Isabelle’s veil. Daniel’s jaw tightened. “Claire—”

“Mrs. Morris,” Claire corrected, “for the moment.”

A hush dropped over the courtyard, the kind that follows a glass shattering. It suited Claire. Silence had been her language for a long time—silent mornings when Daniel left early, silent evenings when he came home late, silent hopes that the season would pass and the man she loved would look at her the way he used to.