His mind refused to accept what his eyes saw. His daughter was dead. The hospital had called. The doctors had confirmed it. The certificate had been signed. Everything had been neat and official. He had even approved the embalming from a hotel room across the ocean, his voice steady, his heart locked behind schedules and contracts.
“Open the coffin,” the boy shouted. “If you do not believe me then look.”
Gregory raised a hand. The security guards stopped. The priest swallowed hard, then nodded reluctantly to the funeral staff. Hands trembled as latches were released. The lid rose slowly, the hinges whispering like a held breath.
Inside lay a young woman. Her hair was arranged carefully. Her makeup was perfect. Her skin was still. But her face was wrong. Similar in shape, similar in coloring, yet not Lillian. Not his child.
A murmur swept through the crowd. Gregory felt the floor tilt beneath him. He reached forward, touching the edge of the coffin, as if the wood might explain what his mind could not.
“Where is my daughter,” he whispered.
The boy stood still now, no longer fighting, his chest rising and falling with controlled urgency.