The funeral home smelled of lilies and grief. I sat in the front row staring at the closed casket that supposedly held my father, my throat raw from crying. The mahogany wood glimmered under the neon lights, polished till perfection, hiding the horrible truth I did not know yet.

Grace was beside me, her hand trembling within mine. On my other side sat Mom; she was heavily sedated and barely keeping her eyes open. Dr. Martinez had insisted on the medication after she had attempted to throw herself onto Dad's grave yesterday during the viewing.

"He looks peaceful," Mrs. Henderson from down the street whispered as she passed our row. "Like he's just sleeping."

I wanted to scream. There was nobody in that casket. Dad wasn't sleeping—he was somewhere far away, suffering, while we mourned a lie. But I didn't know that yet; all I knew was that my father was dead, and I was drowning in grief far deep to emerge.

The pastor droned about eternal rest and God's plan, but those words died in the air. If God had a plan, why did it take away the one person who held our family together? Why did it leave us poor and broken?

"Isabella?" Richard's voice was soft beside my ear. He had moved from his seat in the second row beside me. "The service is winding down. Are you ready?"

I nodded, suppressing the shaking of my head. The walk to the cemetery felt like some sort of death march. The November wind cut through my black dress like a knife, yet I barely felt it. Everything just felt numb, apart from the unbearable weight pressing down on my chest.

I stood at the graveside, watching them lower the empty casket. Each shovel of dirt seemed to bury my heart along with the father I was never going to see. Grace was sobbing freely; her shoulders shook under the weight of grief. Mom stared blankly, the medication making her into a shade of herself.

"Sorry for your loss," people said, one after the other, their faces blurring together. I nodded and thanked them, playing the part of fateful daughter, while my mind screamed with questions. How am I supposed to take care of everyone? How am I supposed to be strong enough for this?

Richard never let go of me through the entire day. His hand rested on my shoulder whenever I swayed. "You're doing beautifully," he murmured. "Your father would be so proud."

The words twisted in my stomach. Proud of what? For me falling apart? For our family crumbling while he was away?

Maya found me after most of the crowd had dispersed. Her eyes were swollen, and she hugged me fiercely.

"I can't believe he's gone," she whispered. "He was like a second father to me."

"I know." My words came out broken. "I don't know how to do this without him."

"You're not alone," she said, pulling back to look at me. "You have me, you have Grace, you have your mom. We will figure this out together.”

But as she said it, I saw doubts flickering in her eyes. She was my age, equally lost as I was. How could any of us ever figure this out?

Richard approached us, expression controlled. "Izzy, forgive me; I hate to do this now, but we need to discuss some legal issues. The sooner we do that, the better for your family."

"Can't it wait?" Maya shot back, her voice harsh. "She just buried her father!"

"Believe me, I wish it could," Richard said, with a kind but firm undertone. "The thing is, we just can't afford to lose time. The bills won't wait for the grief to pass."

He was right-hateful because he was. But, I was at least grateful that someone was being level-headed, making decisions on my behalf when I couldn't. That gratitude would haunt me later, when the truth unfolded.

"What do you want me to do?" I asked.

"Not here," he said, glancing around at the other mourners still congregating. "Come by my office tomorrow; we will go over everything then."

The drive back was silent apart from my mother's occasional whimper. Grace helped me get her settled for the night, after which we sat in the living room surrounded by flowers and casserole dishes sent by neighbors showing their sympathy.

"What are we going to do?" Grace asked quietly.

"I don't know." Speaking that was like another death. "Richard says there are legal things to handle. Maybe Dad had more life insurance than we thought."

"Maybe." Grace sounded unconvinced.

That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, flooding with memories from the service. Dad's work friends, looking older and more tired than I remembered. His construction crew, in their best suits, openly cried. The empty casket being lowered into the ground.

Empty casket.

I shot up, heart racing. Why was it closed? I had assumed it was because of the car accident because he was damaged too badly. What if...?

No. This was grief. Grief makes people paranoid. Dad was dead. I'd already seen the police report, the death certificate. Richard took care of all.

My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: "The truth is buried deeper than the grave. Ask yourself why you never saw the body."

I stared blankly at the message, my hands shaking. Some sicko was making an extremely cruel joke. People are cruel during times of grief. I deleted the message and tried to sleep again.

Sleep refused to come. The words were stuck in my head. Why hadn't I seen the body? Why hadn't I made a fuss about seeing him one last time?

Before I could lose my nerve, the next morning I called Richard's office.

"I need to see my father," I said when he picked up.

"Izzy, what do you mean?"

"I need to see his body. I need to know he's really gone."

There was a pause. "Sweetheart, that's not possible. He's been buried. You were there."

"I was at a funeral for a closed casket. I never saw him."

"The accident was really bad," Richard said gently. "I didn't want you to have to see him like that. Trust me, you wouldn't want to."

"I don't care. I need to know."

"Izzy, you're really grieving. Denial and the need for proof are really normal. But you have to accept that he is gone. The sooner you do that, the sooner you will find healing."

His tone was soft and fatherly. It reminded me of how Dad would soothe me when I was upset. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was looking for excuses not to deal with the truth.

"I will see you this afternoon," I said finally, "to discuss the legal aspects."

"Naturally. And, Izzy, I know this is hard, but you're going to get through this. I swear it."

Hanging up, I glanced around Dad's study. His coffee mug still lay on the desk, cold long ago. His reading glasses rested alongside yesterday's newspaper. It felt as if he had just gone out for a minute.

Grace found me about an hour later crying over his worn-out blueprints.

"I miss him so much," I cried. "I keep thinking I hear his truck in the driveway."

"I know," she sat down by me. "I keep wanting to call him. Just to hear his voice."

We held each other and cried, two girls who lost their anchor in the world; little did we know their Dad somewhere, perhaps not far, was also pondering on us, wondering if we were alright, if we had figured out that he was still alive.

This afternoon meeting with Richard became a blurred encounter of disposition of legal documents and occurrences of financial reality. The life insurance would cover funeral costs and one month maybe. The house had a second mortgage I never knew about. Mom's medical bills were piling up.

"I know it feels tough," Richard said, staring at my expression as I stared at the numbers. "But I do have a solution. The same thing I mentioned yesterday?"

"The marriage thing," I said dully.

"This is not just any marriage. This man, Damian Blackwood- He's successful, kind, respectful. He needs a good wife to secure his inheritance, and you need financial security. It's a win-win."

"It's insane."

"It's practical." He leaned closer, staring at me earnestly. "Izzy, your father spent his whole life creating something for you girls. Don't let that sacrifice go in vain."

His words hit me like a shockwave. Dad had worked himself to death-literally-on this for us. And now I was being asked to sacrifice myself to save what he had built.

"How do I know this Damian won't harm me?"

"Because I know him personally. He's a good man who's had a lot of loss. He knows what you're going through."

"What kind of loss?"

Richard's gaze softened. "He lost his wife not long ago. Eleanor. She was young and beautiful and fun to be with. He's been having a tough time moving on."

There was something about the way he said Eleanor's name that creeped me out, but I shoved the feeling away. Grief was making me paranoid about everything.

"I need time to think about it."

"Of course. Just don't take too long. Mr. Blackwood has other options, and time is running out for your family."

As I drove home, I couldn't stop thinking about my father's funeral that morning. About the empty casket, and the dirt thrown on top. About Mom's broken expression, Grace's shattered dreams.

When I arrived home, Maya was already waiting for me; her laptop was open on the kitchen table.

"I have been looking into your father's accident," she stated bluntly.

"Maya, please don't."

"Just listen now. There are inconsistencies in the police report. The timeline just does not add up. And there is something else. She swung the laptop around toward my side. "I have dug up some stuff about Richard Thorne.

The computer displayed a news article from two years ago: "Owner of Construction Company Dead in Suspicious Accident."

"That's not Dad; I was bewildered;" I replied.

Maya went on, "No, but the details make it interesting. Single-car accident on an obscure highway. There were no witnesses. A closed casket funeral. The family left in massive debt." Maya was raising her voice, urgent! "Izzy, what if this was not the first time?"

"You're telling me Richard...what? Kills people for money?"

"I am saying this is a pattern, and you need to be careful."

My eyes were glued to the article: my mind was spinning. The victim bore no similarity to my Dad, but the circumstances were hauntingly similar. Same lawyer handling the estate. Same type of accident. Same financial troubles afterward.

"This is crazy," I whispered.

"Maybe, but what if it is not?" Maya was grasping my hands. "What if your father is still alive hiding somewhere?"

The thought hit me like a lightning bolt. What if that text was real? What if Dad was out there, just waiting for someone to find him?

"I have to call the police," I blurted.

"With what evidence? A news article about another person? They'll think you're having a breakdown."

She wasn't wrong. I just couldn't ignore this.

"Then what do you want me to do?"

"Be very careful. Don't sign anything Richard gives you. And whatever you do, don't marry this Damian person until we know more."

That night, I sat in Dad's study again, staring at the family pictures on his desk. Us at the beach last summer. Grace's high school graduation. Mom's birthday party. Just us, all happy and whole together.

And what if he was still alive? What if he was somewhere, possibly hurt, wondering why we hadn't come for him?

I took my phone and called Richard.

"I've made my decision," I said when he answered.

"And?"

"I'm going to marry Damian Blackwood."

There was a pause. Then Richard spoke again, this time in a voice warm with pleasure. "I think you're doing the right thing, Izzy. Your father would be proud."

"When do I meet him?"

"Soon. Very soon. Don't worry about the details—I'll handle everything."

As I hung up, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the window. I looked like a stranger, hollow-eyed, desperate, defeated. But something was building beneath my despair: resolve. If Dad was really dead, I would honor him by saving our family; if he was alive, I would help find him.

I was done being a victim.

The doorbell cut across my thoughts. I opened it to find a deliveryman with a large white box.

"Isabella Carter?"

"Yes."

"This is for you."

Inside the box was a wedding dress. Pure white silk, simple yet classy, just my size. No card. No explanation. Just a dress that looked more appropriate for a funeral than a wedding.

I held it up to the light, and for a moment, I think I could smell lilies—the same flowers from Dad's funeral this morning.

My phone buzzed. Another text from the unknown number: "Some brides wear white to their wedding. Others wear it to their execution."