Vincent’s face had gone pale now. His eyes flicked toward the parking lot.
“You need to go now. Don’t go home. Not yet. Your father was very specific about that.”
“My father is dead.”
But my voice wavered on the word dead because suddenly I wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
Vincent’s hand tightened on my arm for just a second.
“Please. Just read the letter. Go to Unit 20. Your father said it was a matter of life and death.”
Then he turned and walked away before I could say another word, his boots crunching over the gravel path, disappearing between the headstones like he had never been there at all.
I stood alone, holding a key in one hand and an envelope in the other.
Behind me, the coffin that was supposedly empty waited to be lowered into the ground.
Ahead of me, my mother was getting into the car, probably wondering where I was.
And in my pocket, my phone buzzed again.
I opened the envelope with trembling hands. The seal cracked. Old glue gave way. Inside was a single sheet of paper covered in Dad’s handwriting.
My eyes jumped to the first line, and my knees nearly buckled.
Emma, if you are reading this, then I have had to disappear.
The rest of the letter blurred as tears filled my eyes. Words rose through the haze.
Vincent has given you the key. Everything I’m about to tell you is true. I’m sorry. Go to Unit 20.
And then, in larger letters, underlined three times:
Do not go home.
Not until you’ve been to the unit. Not until you understand what’s happening. If you’ve received a message from David asking you to come home, especially if it sounds wrong or out of character, do not go.
