The air in the crematorium was thick, smelling of ozone and the suffocating perfume of lilies

Helena Vale dabbed at dry eyes with a silk handkerchief. Marcus stood near the furnace doors, checking his watch as if grief had an appointment slot.

Dr. Crane hovered beside them, pale and silent.

I stepped toward the coffin. The moment my hand reached for the latch, every face in the room turned toward me. Their gaze hit like a physical blow.

Then continue reading …