Husband Used Daughter as Practice

The funeral home's private viewing room felt too small, too suffocating. Emma's small white coffin seemed to dominate the space, its polished surface reflecting the soft overhead lights. I stood beside it, my fingers tracing the delicate lace trim that adorned the edges.

The door opened, and Maverick entered. He looked immaculate as always—his suit perfectly pressed, his hair neatly combed. Not a single wrinkle of grief marred his composed features.

"You shouldn't be here," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "Not until you tell me the truth."

"The truth?" He sighed, checking his watch. "Louise, this isn't the time or place."

I pulled out my phone, my hands shaking so badly I nearly dropped it. "Then how about this? Explain this to me."

I thrust the screen toward him, displaying Teagan's Instagram post. The one that had shattered whatever remained of my heart.

"Practice material?" My voice cracked. "Our daughter was your practice material?"

Maverick barely glanced at the screen before his expression hardened. "You're reading too much into a colleague's post. Teagan is a professional who occasionally observes procedures for her research."

"A veterinarian?" I hissed. "Observing my daughter's surgery?"

"You're being hysterical," he said dismissively. "Teagan has special training. She occasionally sits in on procedures to further her understanding of comparative anatomy."

I grabbed his arm, my nails digging into his expensive suit. "Stop lying to me! Why would a veterinarian be in that operating room with our daughter?"

He removed my hand as if brushing away a speck of dust. "Your grief is making you paranoid, Louise. This is exactly why I've been trying to handle the arrangements myself."

"Handle the arrangements?" I repeated, incredulous. "Our daughter is dead because of you—because of whatever you and Teagan were doing!"

"Enough." His voice turned cold. "You need to apologize to Teagan for whatever accusations you're planning. She's been nothing but supportive during this difficult time."

I stared at him, unable to process what I was hearing. Apologize? To the woman who had helped kill our daughter?

"Get out," I whispered.

"Louise—"

"GET OUT!" I screamed, my voice echoing off the walls.

Maverick straightened his tie, unmoved by my outburst. "I'll be at the office if you need me," he said calmly, walking out and leaving me alone with Emma's small white coffin.

---

I couldn't sleep. Couldn't eat. But I could think—clearly, coldly, for the first time since Emma died.

I reached for my old phone, the one I'd kept hidden in a drawer since marrying Maverick. The one with all my old contacts from before—people with skills, resources, and connections that could help me now.

"James?" I said when the call connected. "It's Louise Henry. I need your help."

Within hours, James had recommended a private investigator—discreet, thorough, and willing to work quickly for the right price.

"Mrs. Thompson," the investigator said during our first meeting. "What exactly are you looking for?"

"Everything," I replied. "Every lie, every secret, every moment they thought no one was watching."

The first reports came back faster than I expected. Hotel receipts spanning three years. Text messages obtained through legal channels. Surveillance photos of Maverick and Teagan at restaurants, parks, even outside her apartment late at night.

But the most damning evidence came from Maverick's own calendar, obtained through a hospital insider.

"Look at this," the investigator said, showing me a photograph. "This was taken on your birthday six months ago."

The image showed Maverick and Teagan at an expensive restaurant, his hand feeding her dessert, their fingers intertwined across the table.

"He told you he had an emergency surgery that night," the investigator noted quietly.

I studied each photo with clinical detachment, my grief hardening into something sharper, colder.

"There's more," the investigator continued. "Dr. Barnes was present during your daughter's surgery."

---

"How is that possible?" I demanded, clutching the surgical logs the investigator had somehow obtained.

"Supposedly as an observer for a research project Dr. Thompson invented to justify her presence," he explained. "But look at these entries."

I scanned the documents, my heart pounding. There it was—Teagan's name, listed as an assistant surgeon.

"She handled instruments," I whispered, horror washing over me. "She actually performed parts of the procedure."

The logs showed multiple irregularities—protocol violations that should have prevented the tragedy but were overlooked due to Maverick's authority.

"Teagan Barnes has no human medical credentials," the investigator confirmed. "Not even a valid license to practice veterinary medicine in this state."

I closed my eyes, seeing Emma's trusting face as she was wheeled into surgery. Had she been afraid? Had she wondered where I was?

When I opened my eyes again, something had changed inside me. The grief remained, but now it burned like acid, fueling a determination I hadn't felt in years.

"Find everything," I told the investigator. "Every mistake, every crime, every secret. I want it all."

As I walked away from his office, my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: "Leave it alone, Louise. Some secrets are better kept buried."

I smiled—the first genuine smile since Emma died. They were afraid. And they should be.