Chapter 6 – THE STANDOFF AT THE MORTUARY

The neon sign of Harris Funeral Home buzzed quietly in the heavy rain as Aunt Ruth pulled the Subaru into the empty parking lot.

My chest felt like it was wrapped in iron bands. Every breath hurt. They had taken her money, her house, and her letters. Now, they were trying to take her dignity.

I jumped out of the car before Ruth had even fully parked, clutching the manila envelope. We ran to the heavy glass front doors. They were locked.

I pounded on the glass. A moment later, Mr. Harris appeared, his usual composed demeanor replaced by a look of deep anxiety. He unlocked the door and pulled us inside out of the rain.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Mr. Harris said, checking the street outside before locking the deadbolt again. “If your father returns—”

“Let him,” Aunt Ruth snapped, shaking the water from her coat. “I have enough evidence in this envelope to put him in federal prison. Where is she?”

Mr. Harris hesitated, then nodded. He led us down a quiet, carpeted hallway to the preparation room in the back.

The room was cold, smelling of antiseptic and lilies. In the center, resting on a steel table, was a cheap, unfinished pine box. It looked like a shipping crate.

I walked slowly toward it. My vision blurred.

“They were going to put her in this?” I whispered, tracing the rough wood.

“Your father insisted it was what the estate could afford,” Mr. Harris said quietly. “He demanded the refund check immediately. I told him cemetery administration wouldn’t process the plot buyback until tomorrow morning.”

“Good,” Ruth said fiercely. “That means the money hasn’t moved yet.”

I looked at Mr. Harris. “I want her in the casket she picked out. The cherry wood one with the white satin lining. And I want her buried next to Grandpa.”

“Hannah, the executor paperwork your father provided is legally binding,” Mr. Harris explained gently. “If I defy it, I could lose my license.”

I opened the manila envelope and pulled out the ledger and the forged power of attorney.

“The paperwork is forged,” I said, placing the documents on the metal counter. “My parents faked my aunt’s death, stole hundreds of thousands of dollars, and forged Grandma’s signature while she was incapacitated. The police will have all of this tomorrow. If you help them downgrade this funeral, you’ll be an accessory to fraud.”

Mr. Harris stared at the ledger. He adjusted his glasses, reading the massive wire transfers. His jaw tightened.

He looked at the cheap pine box, then at me.

“My family has buried the people of this town for three generations,” Mr. Harris said, his voice finding its strength. “I buried your grandfather. I will not put his wife in a crate.”

He walked over to a wall phone and dialed a number.

“Frank? It’s Arthur. Prep the cherry wood casket. Yes, the original order. And call the cemetery manager. Tell him the plot buyback is canceled due to pending criminal litigation.”

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding, sagging against Aunt Ruth.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Mr. Harris said, hanging up the phone. He walked over to a small mahogany side table and picked up a small, folded index card.

He held it out to me.

“When your grandmother finalized her original arrangements with me a year ago, she gave me this,” Mr. Harris said. “She said if her family ever tried to interfere with her burial, I was to give this to you immediately.”

My hands shook as I took the card.

Hannah, the familiar cursive read. If you are reading this, Sarah and Tom have shown their true colors. There is a reason I bought the plot next to your grandfather thirty years ago. Go to the cemetery. Look at the back of his headstone. Use the key I left you.

I looked up at Ruth.

“The brass key,” I realized. “It didn’t just open the storage unit.”

Suddenly, the silence of the mortuary was shattered by the sound of glass breaking at the front of the building.

Mr. Harris jumped. “What was that?”

Ruth and I exchanged a terrified look.

Heavy footsteps echoed down the carpeted hallway.

The door to the preparation room swung open, hitting the wall with a violent thud.

My father stood in the doorway, drenched in rain, holding a tire iron. Behind him stood Daniel, his nose bruised and swollen from where Ruth had hit him.

“I knew you’d come here,” Dad snarled, stepping into the room. He pointed the tire iron at Mr. Harris. “Step away from my mother. And give me the envelope.”

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