Ellie held the door half-shut, chain tight, letting Michelle’s smile work uselessly against the narrow gap. Grief had softened the woman’s features at the funeral; now calculation lived just beneath the pink-rimmed eyes. Brian wouldn’t meet Ellie’s gaze. His questions about “anyone walking” still hung in the air like fog, heavy and guilty. Somewhere behind her, in the laundry room, Tyler was holding his breath.

“No,” Ellie repeated, stronger. “You can’t come in.” The words seemed to stun Brian more than Michelle. Michelle’s eyes cooled, just a fraction, before she rearranged her expression into wounded concern. Ellie felt the phone in her pocket buzz once: a text from Walt—Here. Out back. She didn’t look down. She didn’t break eye contact. “I’ve called someone,” Ellie said quietly. “If there was a disturbance at the cemetery, we’ll sort it out properly.” For the first time, real fear flashed across Michelle’s face. Not mourning. Not shock. Fear. Ellie slid the door shut on it, turned the deadbolt, and walked toward the laundry room to stand exactly where a grandmother was meant to stand—between her grandson and whatever had tried to bury him.