The funeral home smelled of aggressive floral sprays and stale coffee, a scent designed to mask the underlying odor of death. I stood at the mahogany reception desk, my hands flat against the polished wood to stop them from trembling.
"I am her daughter," I said, my voice low and vibrating with restraint. "I am claiming the body of Mrs. Campbell for an independent autopsy."
Mr. Sterling, the funeral director, didn't meet my eyes. He adjusted his tie, looking past me toward the velvet-draped hallway. "I’m afraid that’s not possible, Ms. Campbell. The remains have already been processed."
The word hung in the air, clinical and cold. *Processed.*
"Processed?" I repeated; the blood draining from my face. "The accident was forty-eight hours ago. State law requires a seventy-two-hour hold for violent deaths unless waived by a coroner. Where is she?"
Sterling finally looked at me, his expression a practiced mask of sympathy that didn't reach his eyes. "Mr. Ellis provided the necessary documentation. He invoked the emergency next-of-kin clause, citing your... medical incapacity."
The room tilted. *Incapacity.* Dalton had used my sedation at the hospital—the grief he had labeled as "hysteria"—to legally bypass me. He had declared me unfit to make decisions so he could make them for me.
"He’s not her next of kin," I whispered, the horror rising in my throat like bile. "He’s my ex-fiancé."
"He presented a signed affidavit claiming strictly religious objections to an autopsy," Sterling said, sliding a piece of paper across the desk. "The cremation was completed two hours ago."
I stared at the signature at the bottom of the page. *Dalton J. Ellis.* A man who hadn't stepped foot in a church since he was six years old had just claimed religious exemption to burn the evidence. An autopsy would have revealed the burn patterns. It would have shown the point of origin was the B-pillar, sparked by the spreaders, not the fuel line. He hadn't just cremated a body; he had incinerated the proof of his crime.
I left the funeral home, the rain hitting my face, but I didn't feel the cold. I felt only heat. A burning, white-hot rage that propelled me across the city to the King County Medical Examiner's office.
The fluorescent lights of the county office were a harsh contrast to the funeral home's dim comfort. I slammed my palm onto the intake counter.
"I want to see the intake forms for Case #4922," I demanded. "The John Doe from the Pike Street explosion."
The clerk behind the glass looked up slowly. He was young, with a smirk that seemed permanently etched into his features. He popped a piece of gum. His name tag read: *T. Wilson.*
The name landed like a physical blow. Wilson. Bailee’s last name.
"Files are confidential, lady," Tommy Wilson said, leaning back in his chair. "Unless you have a warrant."
"I’m the victim's daughter," I snapped, leaning in until my breath fogged the glass. "And I know you expedited a cremation without a proper coroner's review. That’s a Class C felony, Mr. Wilson. Obstruction of justice."
Tommy didn't flinch. He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial sneer. "Look, Captain Ellis said you were having a hard time. Confused. We just helped the family move on. Religious objection is a tight seal, airtight. You want to sue the city? Go ahead. But the evidence is ash now."
He tapped the glass with a pen. "Go home, Claire. Before you embarrass yourself."
He knew my name. They had discussed me. I was the problem to be managed, the loose end to be tied off.
***
Three hours later, a courier van idled outside my apartment building. The driver handed me a heavy, unassuming cardboard box and a small plastic bag before driving off into the drizzle.
I sat on the floor of my living room, the box between my legs. The label on the top simply read: *Remains.*
Taped to the lid was a note on Fire Department stationery. I recognized the sharp, angular handwriting immediately.
*Let it go. For your own sanity.*
I didn't open the box. I couldn't bear to look at the gray dust that was supposed to be the woman who taught me to tie my shoes, who graded papers at the kitchen table, who loved me fiercely.
Instead, I reached for the plastic bag—the "Personal Effects."
It was light. Fire takes everything. I upended the bag onto the hardwood floor. A lump of melted plastic that used to be a phone case. A blackened metal buckle from a seatbelt. And a keychain.
It was heavy, made of stainless steel, miraculously intact beneath a layer of soot. I picked it up, my thumb rubbing against the grimy surface. My mother carried a leather fob with a photo of us. This was metal. Custom engraved.
I rubbed harder, the black soot smearing onto my skin, revealing the silver beneath. The letters emerged, stark and undeniable.
*M.E.*
I froze. My breath caught in my chest, a painful hiccup of air.
My mother’s name was Janet Campbell. Her initials were J.C.
*M.E.*
Margaret Ellis.
The world went silent. The sound of the rain against the window faded into a dull buzz. My mind raced back to the accident scene. The silver Highlander. The popular model. The same color. The same year. Mrs. Ellis had bought one just last month—she’d made a point of telling me, a passive-aggressive remark about how she liked my mother’s taste, even if she didn't like her politics.
Dalton hadn't identified the body. The body was unrecognizable. He had identified the *car*.
I looked at the box of ashes. Then at the keychain in my hand.
A terrifying, hysterical laugh bubbled up in my throat. Dalton had destroyed the evidence to save Bailee. He had expedited the cremation to hide his sins.
But he hadn't burned my mother.
He had burned his own.
