Chapter 3:

The Funeral

The chapel was already half full when I arrived.

Almost everyone there spoke quietly, as though every sentence at the funeral would be used against the speaker.

I could see people carrying bouquets, while others stood in small circles, sharing stories about John Wilton.

I stopped beside the register at the entrance, wrote my name beneath the others, then walked into one of the back pews.

From there, I could see everything, including John's casket resting beneath the altar, surrounded by white lilies.

Beside it stood a framed photograph of him wearing the same warm smile I'd seen on his employee profile the first time I searched his name.

He looked ordinary, and that was what made it seem strange.

Ordinary men weren't supposed to die hours before a meeting.

Ordinary men didn't call the same reporter three times in one night, only to be declared dead before sunrise.

The sound of the organ disappeared as the minister stepped forward.

"We gather today," he began, "to celebrate a life well lived..."

His voice faded into the background.

I watched the room. Of course I did. That's what made me a journalist.

I noticed four men wearing suits that weren't identical, but were close enough to make me wonder if it was deliberate.

One of them stood near the entrance with his hands loosely clasped in front of him.

The second remained by a stained-glass window without speaking to anyone.

The other two sat several rows apart, never looking at each other, but keeping their eyes on the congregation.

They neither joined in the hymns nor bowed their heads during the prayers.

I opened my notebook just enough to write a single line.

Four men, watching the room, not the funeral.

Then I closed it. Maybe I have grown suspicious of everything now.

The minister invited anyone who wished to share a memory to come forward.

An elderly woman spoke first. She remembered John fixing bicycles for children in the neighbourhood.

A former colleague laughed softly as he described John's habit of bringing homemade sandwiches to work because he insisted cafeteria food was "financially irresponsible."

The chapel chuckled, and for a moment, the weight in the room lifted slightly.

Then I looked toward the front pew. There she was.

Margaret Wilton sat still with both hands folded around a damp handkerchief.

Some sympathizers leaned toward her with condolences, and she thanked each of them with the same tired nod, but her eyes never seemed to settle on the person speaking.

The service ended just after noon, and people began moving outside in small groups, exchanging hugs, handshakes and quiet prayers before making their way toward the cemetery behind the chapel.

I stayed where I was because I knew grief shouldn't be interrupted.

Eventually, the crowd around Margaret began to thin out.

One by one, the mourners left until only a few family members were left.

I breathed in heavily, then walked towards her.

"Mrs. Wilton?"

She turned, and her eyes settled on my face for about a minute.

Then she said,

"Aria Bennett."

"You know who I am?"

A faint, weary smile crossed her face.

"My husband made sure I did."

For a moment, I felt relieved. If John had already told her about me, perhaps this wouldn't be as difficult as I'd expected.

Before I could ask another question, Margaret's expression changed.

She looked over my shoulder, and the little softness left in her face seemed to disappear.

Then she looked back at me. This time, her voice was barely audible.

"You shouldn't have come."

The words landed harder than I expected.

I glanced around us. The last of the mourners were making their way outside, leaving the chapel quieter by the second.

"I know this isn't the right time," I said. "I'm sorry."

"You should be."

Her voice wasn't angry.

Somehow, that made it worse.

I swallowed hard.

"John called me the night before he died."

Margaret's fingers tightened around the handkerchief.

"I know."

"He called three times."

"I know."

"He was supposed to meet me the next morning."

"I know that too."

I stared at her.

"How?"

She looked away.

For a few seconds, she didn't say anything.

Then she folded the handkerchief into a smaller square.

"My husband told me everything he thought I needed to know."

The answer sounded carefully chosen.

Not everything. Just everything he thought she needed to know.

"Did he tell you what he was going to tell me?"

Her eyes came back to mine.

"No."

"Did he tell you what he found?"

"No."

"Did he tell you who he was afraid of?"

She didn't answer. I didn't need her to. Her silence alone was an answer of its own.

I lowered my voice and looked around.

"Mrs. Wilton, I'm not trying to make this harder for you. I just need to understand why my source is dead."

Her face tightened.

"My husband wasn't your source."

"He was going to be."

"He was my husband."

The correction was instant but still felt like a slap.

I looked down. "I'm sorry, ma'am."

Her expression softened a bit. Just slightly as she leaned closer.

"If you cared about John at all, you'll leave this alone."

I looked at her, with confusion in my voice I asked;

"Did he ask you to tell me that?"

"No."

"Then...?"

Her eyes moved toward the chapel entrance, and I followed her gaze.

One of the men I'd noticed earlier stood outside.

He was speaking to another man now.

He looked away the moment our eyes met.

Margaret noticed it too.

She closed her hand around my wrist. Not hard, just enough to stop me from turning fully towards him.

"You should leave now."

"Who are they?"

"Please..."

Her voice had changed. It wasn't the voice of a grieving widow anymore. It sounded more like the voice of someone asking for mercy.

"Mrs. Wilton..."

"Go home, Ms. Bennett."

She released my wrist, then walked away through a side door.

For several seconds, I stood there wondering what had just happened.

I'd come expecting a grieving woman who might know something about her husband's final hours.

Instead, I'd found someone who was afraid to say his name too loudly.

I stepped outside and searched the parking area for the four men, but they were gone.

Not many people were left except mourners leaving the cemetery and the occasional slam of a car door.

I was supposed to leave too but somehow, caught myself standing beside my car, thinking about Margaret's hand around my wrist.

Then my phone rang. I pulled it from my handbag and noticed an unknown number.

I stared at the screen until the call ended and a message popped immediately afterwards.

WE WARNED YOU.

I looked around the parking lot, but nothing seemed out of place.

My phone vibrated again and another message appeared.

DON'T MAKE US WARN YOU TWICE.

We? Us? How many were there? Who exactly was I up against?

The questions came all at once.

I placed the phone face down on the passenger seat.

For the first time since John died, I considered doing exactly what everyone had been telling me to do.

To walk away and forget everything.

Then I remembered John's voice from that afternoon I'd spoken with him on the phone.

"I'm only doing this because I don't want to die with the truth."

No. Whatever John had discovered had already cost him his life. Walking away wouldn't bring him back. It would only make his death meaningless.

I started the engine and drove towards the gates. I was almost there when I noticed someone standing near the edge of the parking lot.

Margaret. She was holding something in her hand.

I slowed down, as she raised one hand, signalling for me to stop.

I hesitated before lowering my window.

She walked towards the car, glancing over her shoulder as though she expected someone to appear behind her.

For a moment, she just stood there, then reached into her handbag and brought out a small brass key.

"What is this?"

"John told me to give it to you if anything happened."

My eyes moved from the key to her face.

"When?"

"The day before he died." She said placing it in my palm.

It was small and slightly worn, with three numbers engraved on one side. 217.

I turned it over between my fingers.

"What does it open?"

"I don't know."

I looked at her, waiting for more. But she said nothing.

Instead, her eyes shifted towards the chapel.

"Don't come looking for me again."

Then she walked away.

"Wait..."

But she was alre

ady walking towards the chapel.

I watched her disappear through the doors.

Then I looked down at the key in my palm again.

For the first time since I began investigating John's death, I had something tangible to work with.

I tightened my fingers around the key.

What was in 217?