The Memory

I drove the Porsche until the gas light came on, which was surprisingly fast given how much Julian coddled the thing. I pulled into a truck stop fifty miles away from the Glass House, my hands vibrating against the steering wheel.

I needed to breathe. I needed to think. I needed to stop seeing the muzzle of Arthur’s gun every time I blinked.

I went into the restroom. It was clean enough, smelling of lemon disinfectant and stale smoke. I locked the stall door and leaned my forehead against the cool metal.

Panic was a physical thing. It was a tightness in my chest, a ringing in my ears. I focused on the tiles. Counted them. One, two, three.

I had almost died. Arthur had pulled the trigger.

He wasn't just a controlling patriarch. He wasn't just a fraud. He was a murderer.

And I had accused him of faking a death.

The thought made me laugh, a short, jagged sound that echoed in the small stall.

I had been right.

The funeral. The closed casket.

I remembered that day. The cold wind. The way the priest’s robes flapped. Julian’s hand in mine, crushing my fingers.

"It’s better this way," Arthur had said, his voice thick with grief. "We don't want to remember her like that. We want to remember the light."

I had nodded. I had thanked him. I had thought he was being protective.

But he wasn't protecting Margaret’s dignity. He was protecting his secret.

I washed my face in the sink, the water cold and shocking. I looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were wide, dark circles smudged beneath them. I looked like a woman on the run.

Which I was.

I had no money. My cards were likely frozen. My phone was gone.

But I had the burner. And I had the Porsche.

I dug through the glove compartment. Julian kept an emergency kit. Flashlight. Tire gauge.

And an envelope.

I opened it. Five hundred dollars in cash.

"Thank you, Julian," I whispered, though I knew the cash wasn't for me. It was for speeding tickets or bribes or whatever men like Julian thought they might need to buy their way out of.

I went back to the car. I filled the tank. I bought a coffee and a sandwich I couldn't eat.

I sat in the driver's seat and looked at the burner phone.

I needed to call Corinne. I needed to tell her the truth. I needed to turn Arthur’s greatest ally into his greatest enemy.

But first, I needed to process what I had seen in the safe.

The death certificate. The cremation receipt. The cremation receipt from *Eternal Rest*.

I pulled up the article about the crematorium scandal again.

*Organ trafficking.*

The phrase made my stomach roll.

Arthur hadn't just bought a fake certificate. He had bought a body. Or parts of one.

He had buried *something* in that casket. Something heavy enough to feel real to the pallbearers. Something organic enough to fool a cursory inspection if anyone had dared to open the lid.

I thought about the weight of the coffin as they lowered it into the ground.

We buried a box.

And I thanked him for sparing us the pain of looking inside.