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Driven by a frantic, visceral need to shatter the terrifying image the note had conjured, I approached the chapel staff, my voice surprisingly steady as I requested access to the security footage from the previous day. The slow, methodical review of the recordings felt like an eternity, each passing frame tightening the knot of dread in my stomach until, suddenly, there she was. On the screen, a woman approached Greg’s resting place alone, her movements deliberate, almost furtive. She paused, a moment of hushed intimacy, and then discreetly, almost imperceptibly, slipped something beneath his fingers. I recognized her instantly, a jolt of cold realization hitting me – Susan, a business contact from Greg’s workplace, someone I had met on a few occasions. Armed with this shocking visual confirmation, my despair transformed into a burning, icy resolve. I found her, pulling her aside with a calm I didn’t feel, my gaze unwavering as I presented the stark evidence. She admitted to leaving the note, her composure unsettling. Then, with a chilling lack of empathy, she delivered the final blow, claiming Greg had children with her, words that felt meticulously crafted and maliciously designed to wound me in the most vulnerable, raw moment of my entire life, confirming every impossible fear.
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