Innocent Until Found Dead

Chapter One

"Grief is not a disorder, a disease, or a sign of weakness. It is an emotional, physical, and spiritual necessity, the price you pay for love. The only cure for grief is to grieve."

—Earl Grollman

White. Quinn wished for more white—something pure and gentle, the color of fresh beginnings and untarnished hope. But black had swallowed everything: black dresses, suits, shadows lingering beneath dark makeup. The world seemed intent on drowning her parents' memory in darkness, as if grief could only exist in the deepest, harshest shades. It felt like everyone was tangled in that blackness, a suffocating veil that refused to let any light through.

Standing at the funeral, with black draping everything like a suffocating shroud—black dresses, black suits, dark makeup—Quinn felt an anger she couldn't quite explain. It wasn't just the loss of her parents that gnawed at her; it was the way everything felt so wrong. The people. The silence. The hopelessness seemed to smother any memory of who they had been—vibrant, alive, human. Her grief went beyond herself; it was for them. For the laughter they'd never share again, for all the life they never got to live. Stolen before their time, leaving her and Aunt Laura to navigate the emptiness left behind.

She closed her eyes, imagining her parents somewhere better—a place untouched by darkness, where they were beyond pain, beyond fear, beyond everything that had twisted their fate. Maybe a place painted in white—pure, peaceful, like the beginning of something new. She wanted that hope, craved it, held onto it like a lifeline in a stormy sea. In her mind, she saw them surrounded by light. It was beautiful, and in that moment, it was all she had to hold on to—a fragile spark against the endless black.

But deep down, Quinn knew it was a lie. As she stood at the edge of their graves, watching the caskets being lowered into the cold, unforgiving earth, she wore black because her parents hadn't left in peace. Their deaths had been violent, twisted into something it wasn't—labeled as a double suicide, whispered about in pitying tones, as if her parents had simply given up. The world had painted them as people who thought life was no longer worth living, but Quinn knew better. They had fought. They had wanted to live. Someone had taken that away from them.

And now, even in death, they were denied peace. The earth that swallowed them was heavy—not just with soil, but with lies, with injustice. Quinn felt that weight pressing down on her chest, a suffocating reminder that her parents' story had been stolen, rewritten in the worst way possible. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms, as the bitter reality settled in. Her parents were gone, and the truth of their lives had been buried alongside them. There would be no peace—not for her, not for them—until she uncovered the truth and brought justice to the ones who had taken everything.

The funeral was short and grim, with closed caskets that only hinted at the horror of what had been done to them. Dozens of people came to mourn, most of whom Quinn didn't recognize. And, of course, it rained—the sky as heavy and oppressive as the sorrow weighing down her chest. It seemed like every funeral happened on a gloomy day, as if the weather was just part of the ritual.

Afterward, she and Laura hosted a reception at their house. It was crowded with even more unfamiliar faces—people murmuring condolences and giving pitying glances that made Quinn's skin crawl. She recognized only a few: distant relatives, her childhood friend Hunter–who only stayed for the beginning—and the funeral director, Gregory Wraithon. Gregory was a strange man with a bushy mustache covering half his face. He had a solemn kindness about him that Quinn appreciated, and he wasn't overly talkative.

As the last of the guests left, Quinn watched Laura toss the remaining jello pudding into the trash. It hadn't exactly been a crowd-pleaser.

"Did you recognize anyone at the reception?" Quinn asked, stacking empty plates as she glanced over at Laura, whose blue eyes were clouded with fatigue. "Aside from your cousin, his wife?"