Afterward, people asked questions in whispers, as if volume might break whatever had just happened. Claire’s mother held her face between both hands and kept saying her name, not sentences, just her name. Her sister cried so hard she became angry, then cried again because anger had nowhere useful to go.
The coffin was opened later in a side room. There was no body, only a dress Claire had not worn in years, a scarf, and a pair of black shoes Colin must have taken from the wardrobe. Her sister looked at them and said, “He packed you like luggage. Oh, my God, how we gave him all our support!” Claire almost laughed, then broke down.
Colin did not confess that day. Men like him rarely offer the truth whole. But the man from his office talked. The cash mechanic talked. The insurance company handed over timestamps. The bank provided forms. Piece by piece, Elise Grant had gathered evidence till the accident stopped being an accident and became what Claire had known in the rain beside the car: a plan for Colin to collect his dead wife’s insurance and clear his gambling debts.