We met at a bar,” she said. “He told me that his wife left him years ago, and that she took his daughter away in the middle of the night. We got together quickly, and not long after, I found out I was pregnant.”
“I was eight months pregnant, Carla,” I said, using her name to remind myself that she wasn’t the demon in this story. “I didn’t leave. I buried him, and I lost everything. I lost my baby because my body went into shock over losing Ron.”
Carla stared at him.
“I want the truth.”
“Is she lying?” she asked.
“No,” he said quietly.
Her voice cracked. “You let her bury you? Are you sick?”
He just stared at the floor.
Carla’s hands trembled. “And you named our daughter after your first wife?”
“Is she lying?”
Silence filled the room.
Then the little girl’s voice drifted in from the hallway. “Mama?”
“Katie girl,” Carla exclaimed, turning around. “You were supposed to be napping!”
“I’m not here to take away what you have,” I said. “I just want justice. I lost my baby the day he disappeared, and he admitted to knowing that the entire time. I will not be painted as unstable so he can stay comfortable.”
“Mama?”
Carla looked at him with something colder than anger. “You lied to both of us.”
And this time, Ron had no words left.
**
The next morning, I did not sit around and cry. I started making calls.
At the county office, I requested a certified copy of the death certificate.
The clerk slid it across the counter. “If you need additional copies, there’s a fee.”
“You lied to both of us.”
I studied it carefully. The coroner’s name was printed neatly, but the signature above it didn’t match the signature archived on the public record.
I looked up. “Who verifies these?”
The clerk hesitated.
“The funeral home submits documentation. The attending physician signs. After that, it’s processed.”
“Processed without checking the body?”
Her expression changed. “Ma’am, I don’t handle that.”
“Who verifies these?”
**
At the funeral home, the manager met me in his office.
“That case had special authorization,” he admitted when I pressed him. “The family requested no viewing. The paperwork was signed.”
“By who?”
He hesitated.
“The deceased’s aunt. A woman named Marlene.”
He hesitated.
“Did anyone confirm identity?”
“There was an accident report,” he said.
“But was there a body?” I asked plainly.
He went silent.
That was answer enough.
**
He went silent.
That evening, I drove to Marlene’s house. She opened the door and attempted a smile.
“Katie.”
“You forged documents,” I said. “You signed off on a closed casket without verification. You submitted paperwork to the county.”
Her composure slipped immediately. “We were protecting him.”
“You falsified a death, Marlene. Don’t you see the problem with that?”
“We were protecting him.”
“He would have gone to prison,” she snapped.
“And now?” I asked. “Now he will. And so will you.”
Her front door creaked behind her. A woman from across the street, church hair, Sunday cardigan, paused on her porch and stared.
