Chapter 3

I got to the garden before them. The late autumn air was crisp, and the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves filled the air. I walked down the familiar gravel path, my heels sinking slightly with each step.

There it was. The memorial grove for my mother. A small cluster of weeping willows surrounding a simple granite bench. On the bench was a small, bronze plaque: In Loving Memory of Eleanor Kent. She made the world more beautiful.

And next to it, on the freshly disturbed soil, was a small, ornate marble slab. Propped against it was a shovel.

I felt a surge of nausea. I walked closer and read the inscription on the marble.

Here lies Mr. Darcy. A loyal friend and a cherished soul. Reunited with his true love at last.

Reunited with his true love? What did that even mean? It was a cat.

Then I saw them. Arthur and Juliet, walking hand in hand down the path. Juliet was carrying a small, velvet-covered box. She was dressed in black, a theatrical performance of mourning. Arthur looked uncomfortable, his eyes darting around as if he expected to be caught.

They stopped when they saw me. Juliet's face tightened, her mask of grief momentarily slipping.

"Anya," Arthur said, his voice strained. "What are you doing here?"

"This is my mother's memorial," I said, my voice dangerously quiet. "What are you doing here?"

Juliet stepped forward, placing a hand on Arthur's arm. "Arthur was just helping me, Anya. It's a difficult day for me." She gestured to the marble slab. "I just wanted a small place to remember Darcy."

"This is not a pet cemetery," I said, looking directly at her.

"I know, but it's such a peaceful spot," she said, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "And I know your mother loved animals. I thought she'd understand."

That was it. The casual invocation of my dead mother's name, used to justify this grotesque stunt.

I didn't think. I acted.

I strode forward and kicked the marble slab. It wasn't heavy. It toppled over with a dull thud.

Juliet gasped. "What are you doing? You monster!"

"Get this garbage out of here," I said, my voice shaking with fury. I turned to Arthur. "Get it out now."

"Anya, calm down," Arthur said, stepping between us. He put his hands up in a placating gesture, the same one he used in town hall meetings when a voter got angry. "Let's just talk about this."

"There's nothing to talk about!" I yelled, the sound echoing in the quiet grove. "She is desecrating my mother's grave to bury her cat!"

"I'm not burying him!" Juliet shrieked, clutching the velvet box to her chest. "It's a memorial plaque! And these are his ashes!"

"I don't care!" I took a step toward her, and Arthur blocked me.

"Anya, please," he begged. "Juliet is just upset. Her cat died. Let's show a little compassion."

"Compassion?" I laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. "You skip my father's award ceremony, you lie to my face, you buy her a condo with our money, and now you stand here in my mother's memorial garden and ask me for compassion for her dead cat? Are you insane?"

Arthur's face went pale. He looked from me to Juliet, trapped.

Juliet started to cry, big, theatrical sobs. "I knew you were a cold-hearted bitch," she wept. "You've always been jealous of what Arthur and I had. You can't stand to see him happy."

"Happy?" I spat the word out. "He's not happy. He's weak. And you are a parasite."

I tried to push past Arthur, to get to her, to rip that plaque from the ground and smash it to pieces. He held me back, his grip surprisingly strong.

"Anya, stop it! You're making a scene!" he hissed, his public image reflex kicking in.

"I'm making a scene?" I looked at him, at the man I had loved, and felt nothing but contempt. "This marriage is a scene. This life is a scene. And I'm done playing my part."

I looked him dead in the eye.

"Get her and her cat's memorial out of here, Arthur. Or I will file for divorce tomorrow morning. And trust me, the story of the mayoral candidate who let his mistress defile a memorial to his wife's dead mother will play beautifully on the six o'clock news."

His grip loosened. The threat, a political one, was the only thing that could reach him. He knew I could do it. He knew I had the skills to destroy him.

He turned to Juliet, his face a mess of confusion and fear. "Jules, maybe we should go. This... this isn't the right place."

"But you promised!" she wailed, her tears suddenly stopping. Her eyes were hard and calculating.

"I know, but we'll find another place. A better one," he said, trying to pull her away.

"No!" She shook him off. "I want this place."

She looked at me, a smirk playing on her lips. "This place is special."

Arthur took her arm more firmly. "Juliet, we're leaving."

He started to lead her away, back down the path. She went, but she looked back over her shoulder at me, her eyes filled with triumph. As if she had won.

They left me standing there, alone in the desecrated grove. The overturned marble slab looked like a tombstone for my marriage.

I let out a shaky breath and pulled out my phone. I dialed the groundskeeper for the garden.

"Frank, it's Anya Kent," I said. "There's some trash in the memorial grove that needs to be removed immediately. Yes. A marble slab. Just throw it out."

I hung up and was about to leave when a glint of metal caught my eye. It was near the base of my mother's bench, half-hidden by a bush.

I walked over and knelt down. It was another plaque, smaller and newer. It had already been installed, screwed into the leg of the bench.

For Mr. Darcy. Waiting for Juliet at the rainbow bridge.

The rage came back, hotter and more violent than before. She hadn't just brought a plaque. She had already defiled my mother's bench.

They couldn't have gone far. I ran out of the grove, my heels digging into the soft earth, my heart pounding with a singular, destructive purpose.