Grant lunged forward, his boots scraping sharply against the polished stone floor. “Turn that off!” he roared, his face flushing a violent shade of crimson. “That device is stolen property! It contains confidential corporate data protected by probate law!”
Before Grant could cover the distance between the aisle and my son, Aunt Marlene stood up from the third pew. Her mouth was slightly open, her eyes darting between Vivian’s frozen posture and Noah’s small, steady frame.
“Let the boy play it, Grant,” Marlene said, her voice cutting through the sudden uproar like glass. “Unless there’s something you don’t want us to hear.”
“Marlene, shut your damn mouth!” Grant snarled, abandoning all pretense of funeral decorum. He reached out to snatch the phone from Noah’s hand, but I didn’t hesitate. I stepped squarely into his path, my shoulder colliding hard against his chest.
“Touch him again, and I’ll break your wrist,” I said. My voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It carried the chilling, flat certainty of a woman who had nothing left to lose.
