Aftercare

I checked my cabinet first.

The private memorial binder was still there.

Black leather. Silver stamp. Untouched lock.

For one ridiculous second, relief tried to rise.

Then I opened it.

The first page was not mine.

Someone had replaced the original title sheet with a clean duplicate. Same paper weight. Same silver border. Same Vale & Vow watermark in the lower corner.

But the spacing was wrong.

I knew my own layouts the way some women knew their wedding vows. The logo sat two millimeters too high. The left margin was too generous. Whoever copied it had good software and bad eyes.

Mara stood beside my desk, arms folded tight.

"Could Serena have photographed it at your house?"

"Maybe."

"Could Grant have given it to her?"

I looked up.

Mara swallowed. "Sorry."

"Do not apologize for asking the useful question."

She nodded, but she looked sick.

I turned the pages one by one. Memorial palettes. Seating diagrams. Chapel lighting notes. Camera rules for grieving spouses who wanted privacy but also needed the public to see them grieving.

My work.

My language.

In Serena's live video, it had become set dressing for her softness.

"Check the cabinet log," I said.

Mara went to the reception terminal.

I opened the digital folder for the Private Memorial Collection. It lived in our internal archive, protected by two passwords and a staff permission wall. At least, it had.

The folder opened without asking for my second approval.

I went still.

Mara called from the other room, "No cabinet access since last Tuesday. Only you."

"Come here."

She came fast.

I pointed at the permissions panel.

There were four authorized accounts.

Mine.

Mara's.

The studio administrator.

And a new forwarding rule I had never created.

Name: aftercare

Destination: a string of letters and numbers ending in a private relay domain.

Mara whispered something ugly.

I almost appreciated it.

"How long has it been there?" she asked.

I clicked the metadata.

Created: 2:14 a.m.

Last night.

After I saw my funeral.

Before I came home.

There were other timestamps too.

2:16 a.m. Memorial Collection opened.

2:17 a.m. Chapel Lighting Notes exported.

2:18 a.m. Widow Positioning Guide exported.

I had written that last file after a client asked where a grieving spouse should stand when the family hated the marriage. I remembered naming it with a glass of cold coffee in my hand, annoyed at myself for being too blunt.

Now the words looked obscene.

Widow Positioning Guide.

Serena had not only taken my binder.

She had taken the instructions for where to stand after I died.

"It copied every file opened in the memorial folder," I said.

Mara leaned closer. "Opened by who?"

I checked the access history.

The account name should have been mine.

It was.

My login.

My office IP.

My device ID.

According to the system, I had opened the private memorial collection at 2:16 a.m., copied the folder, and sent it to aftercare.

At 2:16 a.m., I had been on the phone with Grant.

"That is impossible," Mara said.

"No."

I spoke out flat.

"That is convenient."

Someone had used my access while I was distracted, or made the system say I had. Either way, the result was better than theft. It was consent with my name stapled to it.

Mara backed away from the desk. "We need IT."

"No."

"Evelyn."

"If we call IT, the ticket goes through admin. If admin has been touched, whoever did this gets a warning."

"Then what do we do?"

I copied the access log to an external drive. Then I printed it.

Mara watched the printer spit out each page like it was evidence in a murder trial.

Maybe it was.

"Paper?" she asked.

"Paper does not update itself."

She gave a shaky laugh. "That is the most you sentence I have ever heard."

I almost smiled.

Then my phone buzzed.

Grant.

I did not answer.

The call stopped.

A message appeared.

Grant: Mara said you looked pale. I am sending Daniel to drive you home.

My eyes lifted to Mara.

Color drained from her face.

"I did not call him."

"Did you text him?"

"No."

Her voice cracked on the word.

I believed her.

That was almost worse.

Grant had known Mara's reaction anyway.

Either because he knew her well enough to predict concern, or because someone in my office had already told him.

The printer finished.

I picked up the pages and slid them into a plain client folder.

Then I made one more copy.

Mara watched me write Amelia across the tab.

"Still hiding things in wedding folders?"

"No one opens happy folders when they are looking for death."

She did not laugh that time.

"Lock the front door."

Mara stared. "What?"

"Daniel is Grant's driver. If he comes up, he will be polite. He will say Grant is worried. He will wait in reception until we feel rude."

"And?"

"And then I will be escorted home by a man Grant chose, with my phone, my bag, and whatever I failed to hide."

Mara moved.

Fast.

The front lock clicked.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then the elevator bell chimed outside the glass doors.

Mara looked at me.

I tucked the printed access log under Amelia's vow renewal file.

Through the frosted glass, a man's shadow stopped at our entrance.

Daniel knocked once.

Polite.

Patient.

Already part of the process.