My 7-year-old daughter left me an old teddy bear before she d!ed in my arms. That night, I found a hidden recorder inside her bear

The morning of the funeral was gray and heavy with rain. I stood in front of the mirror, tying my black tie with numb fingers. My house was empty. The colorful drawings Emma had taped to the refrigerator seemed to mock me with their bright yellows and reds.

My phone buzzed. It was Melissa.

"David, sweetie, we're outside. Grant and I have the limo ready. You shouldn't have to drive yourself today. Let us take care of you."

I stared at the text. A week ago, I would have found this comforting. Now, it felt like a snake offering a warm coil.

"I'll be right down," I texted back.

When I stepped outside, the black limousine was idling by the curb. The door opened, and Melissa stepped out. She wore a flawless black designer dress, her eyes artistically puffy as if she had been crying just enough to look devastated, but not enough to ruin her makeup.

"Oh, David," she sobbed, throwing her arms around me.

The scent of her expensive perfume filled my nose. It was the same scent that had lingered in Emma’s hospital room. I had to force my arms to go around her, keeping my body from shaking with absolute rage.

"Thank you for being here, Mel," I murmured, my voice raspy.

"Always, baby brother. We're in this together," she whispered.

Behind her, Grant stood by the car door. He wore a custom-tailored charcoal suit. He adjusted his gold watch—no doubt bought with the first wave of Emma’s GoFundMe donations—and gave me a solemn, practiced nod of condolence.

"Stay strong, man," Grant said, patting my shoulder. His grip was firm, the grip of a man who believed he had successfully executed the perfect crime. "We’ve got the media covered today. We’ll make sure Emma's legacy is honored. The foundation is going to change lives."

"The foundation," I repeated, keeping my voice entirely flat. "Yes. Of course."

During the service, I sat between them. I watched the tiny white casket lower into the damp earth. I didn't cry. Not because I didn't feel the pain, but because my tear ducts had dried up, replaced by a searing, white-hot fire.

As the priest spoke of angels and eternal peace, my eyes drifted to Grant’s hands. They were manicured, clean. Those hands had signed the checks. Those hands had written the offshore wire transfers.