Jack’s pulse hammered. Doubt, dormant and suffocating, erupted. He turned sharply. “Open the coffin.”
“Sir, it is not permitted,” stammered the funeral director.
“Open it. Now.” Jack’s voice cracked with fury and fear.
The gravediggers obeyed. Screws clicked. Hinges creaked. The lid lifted.
The satin interior was empty. Jack staggered back, stunned. Then he looked at Tala as if she were the only light left. “Take me to that house.”
Saint Aurelia changed its face when Jack’s convoy left the wealthier districts. Cobbled streets sharpened into alleys of rusted signage and laundry lines. Tala guided them with certainty. “Turn by the bakery with the red door. Go past the bus stop with the peeling mural.”
They stopped before a narrow building with faded blue paint. Jack entered with his security team. The stale smell of old meals clung to the hallway. In the upstairs room they found a thin blanket, a cracked cup, and a silk ribbon embroidered with the initials M H. Jack lifted it, trembling.
“She was here,” he whispered.