He reached into his briefcase and withdrew a thick sealed envelope.

“This was delivered to my office two days before Lily’s death,” he said. “It is marked in her handwriting: ‘To be opened only if my death is ruled an accident.’”

The church went utterly still. The ticking of the old wall clock sounded deafening. Jason’s color drained.

Mr. Hayes opened the envelope.

“If Jason claims I fell, please do not simply accept it,” he read. “On March 5th, after I confronted him about Rachel, he grabbed my arm hard enough to bruise and told me, ‘If you destroy my life, I’ll destroy yours.’ I no longer felt safe in my own home.”

My stomach twisted painfully.

“I installed a small security camera at the top of the stairs,” he continued. “If something happens to me, my lawyer has instructions.”

He placed a small black flash drive on the table.

“This contains the footage Lily sent to my office the night before she died.”

Jason stared at it like it might explode.

“She wanted the truth heard,” Mr. Hayes concluded. “And now it will be.”

Two weeks later, I sat in a cramped police station room with my parents, Mr. Hayes, and a detective. A laptop sat open in front of us.

The video was grainy but unmistakable. Lily stood at the top of the staircase, eight months pregnant, crying, phone in hand. Jason was below, shouting.

“You’re not leaving,” his voice roared. “You’re not taking my son.”

“He’s not your possession,” Lily cried. “I’m done, Jason. I’m taking Noah and going to my parents—”

Jason rushed upward, grabbed her wrist. She tried to pull free. His arm swung. She lost her balance.

We watched my sister fall.

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