CHAPTER 4 THE FUNERAL WITHOUT A BODY
Walter drove us to an abandoned funeral home on the edge of Silver Lake.
The sign above the entrance read HOLLOWAY & SONS, though no funeral had been held there in nearly ten years.
“My father was taken here?” I asked.
“For one night.”
Walter unlocked a side door.
Dust covered the lobby. Dead flowers stood in cracked vases. The air smelled of mildew and old wood.
He led us into the preparation room.
A steel table stood beneath a broken light.
Lena stared at it.
“What happened here?”
Walter opened a cabinet and removed a cardboard box.
Inside were photographs, receipts, and a death certificate bearing my father’s name.
“Reagan planned a private funeral,” he said. “Closed casket. Family only. She paid a mortuary transport company to deliver a sealed coffin to a crematorium.”
“Was my father inside?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“I opened it.”
My skin prickled.
“The coffin was filled with concrete blocks.”
Lena sat slowly.
“So Camden’s death was legally recorded without a body.”
Walter handed me the death certificate.
Cause of death: pancreatic cancer.
Attending physician: Dr. Malcolm Greer.
I had heard that name before.
Greer testified during my father’s competency hearing, claiming Camden could no longer manage his affairs. That ruling gave Reagan control of the company and his personal assets.
“Where is Greer?” I asked.
“Dead,” Walter said. “Car accident three weeks after signing this.”
Another accident.
I studied the photographs. One showed Reagan standing outside the funeral home with Carter and Victor. Another showed Detective Briggs speaking to the crematorium manager.
They had constructed my father’s death like a business transaction.
Every signature purchased.
Every question silenced.
“Where was Camden taken after this?” I asked.
Walter hesitated.
“I tracked the transport van to an estate near Lake Mercer. But two months later, the property was sold. Camden was moved again.”
“To where?”
“I don’t know.”
Lena examined a receipt.
“This company transported the coffin.”
The business name was Hawthorne Medical Logistics.
Hawthorne.
The same name as my father’s hidden archive.
“That can’t be a coincidence,” I said.
She turned the receipt over.
A series of handwritten numbers appeared on the back.
“Coordinates,” she said.
We entered them into Walter’s old phone.
They pointed to a rural area north of Silver Lake.
Before we could leave, a vehicle stopped outside the funeral home.
Walter switched off the light.
We heard the front door open.
Slow footsteps crossed the lobby.
Then Reagan’s voice drifted through the building.
“Finnley, I know you’re here.”
I moved toward the door, but Lena caught my sleeve.
“She wants you angry.”
Reagan continued.
“You’ve always been predictable. That’s why Victor chose you.”
I stepped into the hallway.
Reagan stood alone beneath the dusty chandelier. She wore a dark coat and no jewelry. Without the perfect hair and controlled expression, she looked exhausted.
“Where’s my father?” I asked.
“Alive.”
The word struck harder than any prison guard ever had.
“Where?”
“I don’t know anymore.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“No. But you should.”
Walter emerged behind me.
Reagan looked at him bitterly.
“You should have taken the money.”
“You should have buried an actual body,” he replied.
Reagan’s mouth tightened.
I walked closer.
“You let me believe he died.”
“I needed you to leave.”
“You threatened to call the police.”
“Because Briggs was watching the house.”
“You could have warned me.”
“And said what? Welcome home, Finnley. Your father is alive, your conviction was arranged, and every person watching this property wants to know whether Camden gave you the ledger?”
“You signed the documents declaring him incompetent.”
Her eyes flickered.
“Yes.”
“You stole his house.”
“I kept Victor from taking it.”
“You remodeled his room.”
“I destroyed listening devices hidden in the walls.”
I wanted to hate every word she said.
The problem was that some of it sounded true.
“Why should I trust you?”
“You shouldn’t.”
She reached into her coat.
Walter raised a pistol.
Reagan slowly removed a phone and placed it on a table.
The screen showed a live video.
A man sat in a wheelchair in a dark room.
His hair was white. His face was bruised and thin.
But I knew him.
“Dad.”
My father lifted his head as though he heard me through the screen.
A hand appeared behind him and rested on his shoulder.
Victor Hale stepped into view.
He smiled at the camera.
“Finnley,” he said. “Welcome home.”
I grabbed the phone.
“Where is he?”
Victor ignored the question.
“Your father made a serious error. He believed prison would protect you while he corrected his financial mistakes.”
“My father didn’t put me in prison.”
Victor’s smile widened.
“Didn’t he?”
Camden’s eyes filled with pain.
Victor bent toward him.
“Tell your son who refused to reveal the Hawthorne access code. Tell him who allowed the prosecution to continue.”
My father whispered something too faint to hear.
Victor turned back to the camera.
“Bring me the flash drive Lena Ortiz gave you. Bring me the key from Unit 108. In exchange, Camden lives long enough to explain why he sacrificed three years of your life.”
The video ended.
I looked at Reagan.
“You knew Victor had him.”
“I knew he had regained control. I did not know where he moved Camden.”
“You were working with him.”
“At first.”
The honesty in her answer stunned me.
“Why?”
“Because Carter owed Victor nearly a million dollars. Victor promised to erase the debt if I helped declare Camden incompetent.”
“You destroyed my family to save Carter.”
“I made one terrible choice. Then Victor made sure every choice afterward was worse.”
“You framed me.”
“No.”
“Your son did.”
“Yes.”
She did not defend him.
That frightened me more than another lie would have.
Reagan took a breath.
“Victor wants you focused on Carter. Carter is reckless, cruel, and guilty. But he is not the architect.”
“Then who is?”
Reagan looked toward the dark windows.
“Someone your father trusted for thirty years.”
Headlights appeared outside.
Several vehicles surrounded the funeral home.
Reagan’s face went pale.
“He followed me.”
The front doors burst open.
Armed men entered the lobby.
Walter fired once, shattering the chandelier. Darkness swallowed the room.
We escaped through the preparation area and crossed a field behind the building as bullets struck the brick wall.
Reagan ran beside me.
For the first time since I met her, she was not composed.
She was terrified.
We reached Walter’s truck.
As he drove, Reagan shouted the coordinates to Lena.
The location on the receipt led to an old lakeside property.
“Is that where Victor has my father?” I asked.
“No,” Reagan said.
“Then what’s there?”
May you like
She looked at me.
“The proof that Camden never intended you to come home.”
