When the attendants turned to adjust the flowers around the coffin, Kimberly stepped forward pretending to fix a fallen rose. In one swift motion she slid the tiny camera between the silk lining and Tyler small hand. She touched his fingers one last time, cold and stiff, then stepped back as if nothing had happened.
No one noticed. Curtis Bell, the crematorium operator, wiped his hands on his uniform and approached the control panel. He glanced toward the family.
“We will begin now,” he said gently.
Kimberly nodded, unable to speak. Her phone vibrated as the camera connected to the live feed. She opened the video.
At first she saw darkness, then a faint glow from the overhead lights reflecting off white satin. Tyler face filled the screen. His eyes were closed. His lips slightly parted. The image shook as the coffin began to move forward on the conveyor.
Then the camera slipped. The image shifted to his feet. Kimberly breath caught. Something about the movement felt wrong. Too much motion. Too alive.
Her pulse spiked. “Stop,” she whispered.
The conveyor continued forward.
“Stop everything,” she screamed suddenly. “Turn it off.”
Everyone froze. Curtis jerked his head toward her.