Arthur’s image steadied on the screen behind the altar.
For one impossible second, I forgot the casket beside me.
He looked alive.
His navy jacket was slightly wrinkled at the shoulders, and the knot of his tie leaned to the left, exactly as it always did after a long day.
He was seated in Harrison’s office with both hands folded on the table.
The recording date in the corner was six days before his death.
Victoria stared at the screen as if Arthur had climbed out of the grave to confront her.
“Clara,” he said, “do not leave the church.
Mother, put the papers down.
Beatrice, return my wife’s ring.”
Beatrice’s fist jerked behind her back.
A murmur swept through the cathedral.
Victoria turned toward Harrison.
“Turn this off.”
Harrison did not move.
On the screen, Arthur drew a slow breath.
“If this recording is being played, then Harrison has determined that someone has presented Clara with a fraudulent paternity report, attempted to remove her from our home, or challenged our child’s place in my estate.”
The blood drained from Victoria’s face.
My hand closed around the edge of the casket.
Arthur had known.
Not that he would die.
Not the way it had happened.
But he had known his mother might come for me if he was no longer standing between us.
Victoria stepped into the aisle.
“This is grotesque.
My son was under tremendous stress when that was recorded.”
Arthur continued as though answering her.
“Mother will probably say I was confused, manipulated, or ill.
I was none of those things.
Harrison is holding the medical evaluations and witness affidavits confirming that I was competent when I made this statement and when I executed the documents accompanying it.”
Several people turned to look at Victoria.
Her chin lifted, but her hands began to tremble.
Harrison broke the wax seal on Arthur’s envelope.
He removed three folders and placed them on the projector cart.
The first was blue.
The second was black.
The third was the same ivory color as the papers Victoria had slammed onto the casket.
Arthur leaned closer to the camera.
“Clara’s baby is my child.”
The words struck me harder than the accusation had.
I covered my mouth.
Arthur’s eyes softened on the screen.
“We chose to undergo a prenatal paternity test after Mother began making insinuations about the timing of the pregnancy.
Clara did not ask for the test.
I did.
I wanted proof strong enough that no one could ever use this child to humiliate her.”
I remembered the appointment.
Arthur had told me the additional blood work was for an inherited heart condition.
He had held my hand while the nurse filled two vials and had joked that our baby already hated needles as much as he did.
I had never seen the final report.
Arthur had said everything was normal and kissed my forehead.
Harrison opened the blue folder.
“The original report was issued by an independent accredited laboratory,” he told the congregation.
“It confirms Arthur Vale’s paternity at greater than 99.99 percent probability.”
Victoria’s papers remained on the casket between us.
Harrison picked them up with two fingers.
