A Birkin For Every Lie

McNei

A grotesque parody of a funeral, a perverse assertion of ownership. The memory of her smug voice, the triumphant laugh, twisted

e his formidable mother, Mrs. Shepherd, had disapproved of. The narrative Harris had fed me for years was that his mother, a notoriously snobbish old-money matriarch, had deemed

uld fill the void Jessica left behind. His melancholy, his occasional distance, I' d attributed to that deep, unrequited first love, a wound I hoped t

re was a subtle arrogance in her posts, a predatory gleam in her eyes that I had once dismissed as ambition. My past self, so desperately wanting to believe in Harris' s inherent goodness,

harpened, focusing on the details. One picture, in particular, stood out. Jessica, smiling, holding what looked like a framed certif

had applied for and received permission to use a plot in my family cemetery. And given the context, the only plot that would make a

om, a flicker of apprehension in his eyes, quickly masked by a practiced smile. "Cecily, darling. You're up early. You look... well, better than yesterday,

n, they were just props in his ongoing play. "I am," I replied, m

bout your mother's memorial, Cecily. Truly. It was completely in

is," I said, my voice flat. "I handled it." I wasn't just r

ying to find a point of connection. "Let me get y

t, with anything but genuine remorse for his actions. "T

nning me back, one meal at a time. "Good. I'll go tell him." He turned

bed his phone. My fingers flew across the screen, reopening the monitoring app.

rom Jessica, timestamped from late la

a few calls to the old family friend who works at the association. He ow

o Cecily's mother. It'll be such a statement. A

this? It feels... wrong. Arvel wil

The permit's already issued. Besides, it's just a cat. And Arvel's got o

's plot, but securing a permit under false pretenses. The casual cruelty of her words about my aging father, the disdain for my family, for

vision swim. It wasn't just betrayal; it was desecration.

r did this? What ki

aming cup of tea. He placed it carefully on the table. "I'm going to hea

he was going. Not to the office. Not for a meeting. He was going to the cemet

was old, yellowed at the edges. A private investigator's report, commissioned years ago by Harris's mother, Mrs. Shepherd. A document I' d inherited after her passing,

d, my voice calm, almost emotionless. I t

the engine. My destination was clear. The McNeil family cemetery. The place where my mother rested. The