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The service was a fragile peace, a collection of soft prayers and stifled sobs, until the heavy doors of the church swung open with a violence that echoed like a gunshot. The rhythmic, arrogant click of heels against the marble floor signaled an arrival that was anything but mournful. Every head turned as my son-in-law, Ethan Caldwell, sauntered down the center aisle. He didn’t look like a man who had lost his wife; he looked like a man who had just closed a lucrative business deal. His suit was a masterpiece of tailoring, his hair was perfectly coiffed, and his face was twisted into a casual, mocking laugh as he whispered to the woman on his arm.