Anna stood before the simple, elegant slab of granite that marked the grave, the name Elizabeth Ann Miller carved deep into the stone. She carefully placed a bouquet of late-season sunflowers at its base, their cheerful yellow a small act of rebellion against the somber landscape. The grief was still there, a constant, dull ache in her chest, but today it was sharpened by a different, more volatile emotion: dread.

She knew he was coming. Her brother, Gavin, would not miss this opportunity. He wouldn’t come to mourn their mother; he would come to desecrate her memory with his rage.