Chapter 2 - The Funeral Hold Amanda had been scheduled for cremation after the chapel service.
That did not happen.
Detective Ward contacted the county medical examiner.
The funeral home preserved everything exactly where it was until instructions arrived.
Nobody dramatically seized the coffin.
Nobody arrested Robert beside it.
Procedure moved more carefully than grief wanted.
The medical examiner had initially declined a full autopsy.
Mom had died after what Robert described as an accidental fall down three basement steps.
She was thirty-eight.
Paramedics found her unconscious.
She died at the hospital.
Emergency imaging showed severe head trauma consistent with a fall.
There had been no obvious sign of intrusion.
No weapon.
No witness.
Robert told police she slipped while carrying laundry.
At the time, nobody challenged him.
Now Detective Ward asked whether the body could be examined before cremation.
The answer was yes.
The funeral stopped.
Robert’s lawyer arrived before the chapel emptied.
His name was Evan Cole.
He advised Robert not to answer further questions without counsel.
Reasonable.
People treated that as guilt.
It wasn’t.
Robert did surrender the gold ring voluntarily after his lawyer spoke with police.
It went into an evidence envelope.
I watched.
“Will I get it back?”
Detective Ward crouched so she was level with me.
“If it belongs to your mom’s estate, eventually the right person should get it.”
“Me?”
“That’s something the court and family will work out.”
Adults always answered differently once lawyers appeared.
Aunt Julia took me home with her that afternoon.
Not Robert.
He objected.
“I’m her stepfather.”
Julia replied:
“You never adopted her.”
That was true.
My biological father, Michael Evans, died in a car accident when I was three.
Robert married Mom a year later.
He had talked about adopting me.
Paperwork began twice.
Never finished.
I had always called him Robert, not Dad.
Nobody forced either word.
Until Mom died, the distinction rarely mattered.
Now it mattered enormously.
Amanda’s will nominated Julia as my guardian if neither biological parent could care for me.
Robert’s attorney said he might petition for custody based on our six-year parent-child relationship.
Julia’s attorney said a court would decide.
I heard all of it from the hallway.
Adults thought doors made children deaf.
That night I slept in Julia’s guest room.
At 1:14 a.m., I woke screaming.
Julia ran in.
I asked:
“Did I make them cut Mom?”
She sat beside me.
“No.”
“Detective said autopsy.”
“Yes.”
“Did I do that?”
“You told the truth about something you saw.”
“But if I didn’t—”
“Katie.”
I looked at her.
“Your mother deserves accurate answers.”
Then:
“And you are not responsible for what adults did before you spoke.”
I wanted to believe her.
The next morning Detective Ward returned.
She had the hospital property log.
Amanda arrived with:
One cell phone.
One brown leather purse.
Wallet.
Car keys.
Small cosmetics bag.
Notebook.
Gold-toned jewelry item?
No.
The paramedic inventory did not list individual purse contents.
At 12:18 a.m., Robert signed for Amanda’s personal property after her death.
He had possession of the sealed purse.
Robert later told Julia he placed it untouched inside Amanda’s bedroom closet.
But the seal had been broken before Julia collected it two days later.
Robert said he did not know how.
Now he had the ring.
Detective Ward asked me:
“When did you last see the ring in the purse?”
“Wednesday night.”
Amanda died Thursday.
“Did you see anything else?”
“A little silver thing.”
“What kind?”
“Like a tiny rectangle.”
“USB drive?”
I knew that word from school.
“Maybe.”
Ward glanced at Julia.
“Was a USB found in the purse?”
Julia shook her head.
May you like
No.
The ring was no longer the only missing object.
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