The priest’s voice faded into the rain as I knelt before Dad’s headstone, clutching the rose I’d promised to bring. My phone buzzed—again. Third time in ten minutes. Not Damian. Never him during grief. But this time, it wasn’t a call. It was a video.

I tapped play behind the shelter of my umbrella. And there he was—Damian—laughing in a hotel suite with Lillian, my best friend since college. Naked. Smug. Then the camera panned to a document on the nightstand: a forged maintenance report. The same one used to cover up the brake failure that killed my father.

My breath stopped. This wasn’t just an affair. This was a confession.

A hand touched my shoulder. I flinched, spinning around to see a man in a long coat, eyes sharp beneath the brim of his hat. 'You don’t know me,' he said, 'but your father hired me six months ago. He suspected something. I failed him. I won’t fail you.'

I stared at the grave, then at the stranger. Two paths stretched ahead: walk away and pretend I saw nothing—or take his hand and step into the fire.