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My blood turned to ice. Aaron. Our family friend, the man who had comforted me at the funeral, the man who had led the investigation with such somber, practiced efficiency. He had been the one to hand me Ben’s personal effects, the one to assure me that the tragedy was an act of nature, a cruel twist of fate. I looked at the note Lucy held—a scrap of paper torn from a notepad, stained with age and something darker. It was Ben’s handwriting.
The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. My husband hadn’t died in a storm; he had been silenced. Aaron hadn’t been investigating an accident; he had been covering up a murder.
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