“That coffin is empty.”
For a second, the world tilted. I honestly could not process the words.
Empty.
The coffin I had just stood beside. The one I had placed my hand on while promising Dad I would take care of Mom. The one that was supposed to hold Richard Martinez, sixty-four years old, my father, dead from a heart attack three days ago.
“That’s not funny.”
My voice came out sharper than I intended, the lawyer in me surfacing even through grief.
“I don’t know what kind of sick joke—”
“No joke, ma’am.”
He glanced over his shoulder. The other cemetery workers were busy across the grounds, too far away to hear.
“Your father came to me twenty years ago with a letter,” he said. “Vincent Hayes. That’s my name. Told me to keep it safe. Said if he ever had to disappear, if something happened and he needed to vanish, I should give it to you and deliver the key.”
Twenty years.
My mind snagged on the number. I was fourteen then, just starting high school.
“But five years ago,” Vincent continued, “he came back. Updated the plan. Paid me a significant sum to carry it out when the time came. Said things were escalating. Said someone dangerous had entered your life.”
