Aunt Brenda chimed in, her voice dripping with false concern.
"We're all family here, Sarah. If this goes to court, it'll drag our name through the mud. Think of the child's spirit—he wouldn't want to see his family tearing each other apart."
When I stayed silent, Derek's voice dropped an octave, patience gone.
"If you don't sign, you're condemning yourself. You'll be the murderer who killed her own son. Everyone here can testify—you put him in that costume. You sent him to his death."
I ignored their faces. My gaze drifted past them, landing on the snow-covered yard through the window. The hem of the mascot costume had flipped up, exposing a single foot.
A navy blue sneaker with white stripes.
Ethan didn't own shoes like that.
I looked up, scanning these so-called "relatives" one by one.
"Are you all certain the boy who died is my son?"
The room went still. Then incredulous laughter broke the tension.
"If it's not Ethan, who else would it be?" Aunt Brenda scoffed.
Diana's eyes were still red-rimmed, but her tone snapped back to its usual sharpness. "You brought the costume. You put it on Ethan yourself. Are you going senile?"
Margaret wiped her crocodile tears and nodded vigorously. "Yes, we all saw it. You dressed him with your own hands."
A lie repeated a thousand times becomes truth. They'd told the story so many times they'd started believing their own fabrication.
I fixed my eyes on Derek.
His gaze flickered—a crack in his composure—before he steadied himself.
I took a slow breath and asked the question that had burned in my chest for two lifetimes.
"Derek, is it because Ethan isn't your flesh and blood that you don't care he's dead?"
The temperature in the room plummeted.
Everyone knew Ethan was from my first marriage. During our year together, Derek had played the perfect stepfather. I knew he was a mama's boy, knew he had an unhealthy obsession with spoiling his sister, but I'd tolerated it. As a remarried woman, I thought if he treated my son well, I could endure the rest.
I never expected the mask to slip so completely.
Derek stood stunned, eyes widening. He shook his head violently, as if trying to dislodge my accusation.
"Sarah, you're hysterical! Don't spout such nonsense!"
But the panic in his eyes betrayed him.
Margaret reacted first. She marched into the kitchen and returned brandishing a knife. The blade caught the light as she pointed it at me.
"Are you signing or not? If you sign, this nightmare ends. If you don't..."
Her eyes dropped to my hand on the table.
Phantom pain shot through me. In my previous life, I'd refused. This woman had pinned me down and chopped off two of my fingers. Later, they told the police I'd had a psychotic break and mutilated myself.
Every person in this room had testified against me.
This time, I didn't fight. I gave a stiff nod.
"I'll sign."
As the ink dried, relief swept through the living room. Derek walked over and patted my shoulder, a satisfied smile on his lips.
"Good. It's done. Go clean yourself up. We need to handle the child first."
Handle. He spoke of the body like a dead fish rotting on the counter.
My eyes drifted toward the window again.
"I want to see him..."
I stepped toward the door.
Derek moved instantly, his arm shooting out to block my path.
"Don't look."
His voice dropped to a whisper. "It'll only make it harder. Let Diana and the others take care of it. She's a nurse—she has experience with these things."
Has experience.
Bile rose in my throat.
I looked up at him, feigning fragility. "We can call the police now, right? The child is dead... we have to report it."
Derek's expression stiffened. He draped his arm around my shoulders, guiding me back to the sofa.
"Sarah, didn't you just sign the waiver? This was a tragic accident. We can handle it internally. Why drag the police into our grief? Why let the whole world watch us suffer?"
