“No,” I said quietly. “You buried our babies and thought I would bury the truth beside them.”
Margaret began crying then.
Real tears this time.
Not for Noah.
Not for Lily.
For herself.
“Claire,” she begged desperately. “We’re family.”
I walked toward the mantel and picked up the twins’ hospital photograph. Noah’s tiny fist rested beneath his chin. Lily’s mouth was open mid-yawn.
“You stopped being family the moment you decided my children were worth more dead than alive.”
The arrests weren’t dramatic.
No thunder.
No crowds screaming outside.
Just the sound of handcuffs closing around wrists I once trusted.
Daniel confessed first. Cowards usually do. He blamed Margaret, claiming she planned everything, insisting he only wanted the insurance money because “the stress was destroying the marriage.” Margaret called him weak and blamed me for “turning the house against God.”
The trial lasted six weeks.
The jury deliberated for four hours.
