Chapter 1

My boyfriend, Cameron Stanford, had a strange habit. He never waited for me outside my office. Instead, he always waited right at the entrance to the morgue. He said the silence here inspired him.

My colleagues all looked at us strangely, but I found it incredibly romantic. He was the only bright spot in my work, the only one who could see past my cold profession and into my heart.

He always brought a bouquet of the freshest white gardenias, placed them in the lobby, and then quietly sat on the bench, watching me with gentle eyes as I prepared the deceased.

Until today, when the police brought in a new female body, the latest victim of what they called "the Gardenia Murders."

As I went through my usual routine, checking beneath her fingernails, my heart skipped a beat. Lodged there was a tiny sliver of wood, unmistakably from the one-of-a-kind rosewood easel I'd seen in Cameron's studio just yesterday.

*****

The scent of disinfectant seemed permanently etched into my senses, following me everywhere I went. Mixed with formaldehyde and a faint trace of decay, it was the constant background music of my life.

I pushed open the heavy lead door of the autopsy room. The hinges groaned, echoing through the empty hallway. My footsteps struck the terrazzo floor, crisp, cold, carrying a chill that threatened to leech the warmth from anyone alive.

At the end of the corridor, just outside the door that separated life from death, Cameron was waiting.

He wore a light gray cashmere sweater today, a bouquet of white gardenias wrapped in plain brown paper cradled in his arms.

He wasn't scrolling through his phone or looking around, just quietly sitting on that row of steel benches, his gaze fixed on the frosted glass door, as if he could see the place where I had just been working.

When he saw me step out, his eyes brightened, like a ripple of warmth spreading across still water.

"Finished?" he asked, standing up and handing me the flowers.

The petals were still beaded with water, their cool touch and heady fragrance instantly cutting through the stubborn smell of disinfectant in my nose. I nodded, slipped off my white coat, and revealed the black sweater I wore underneath.

As we walked past, Ruth Cyrus, a colleague, shot us an openly strange look before hurrying away. Around the corner, I could still hear her whispering to someone else.

"He's here again. So unlucky," Ruth muttered under her breath.

"Seriously, who hangs out at a place like this every day? And he's a painter. Doesn't he think it's spooky?" another voice chimed in.

"Natalie must be pretty brave, dating a guy like that..." Ruth remarked.

Those voices were like annoying mosquitoes buzzing in my ear. I'd gotten used to it ages ago. Nobody really got what I do. All they saw were the cold bodies, never the brief comfort on the families' faces.

They thought my hands were always icy, but they didn't see how warm they got, soaked in sweat, after I mended a shattered face with over three hundred fine sutures.

Only Cameron was different.

He never thought I was unlucky or tainted. He would take my hand, freshly washed with disinfectant soap, and press a light kiss to my fingertips. He said my hands were a bridge between endings and dignity. He even described my job in poetic words.

'"You're not just an embalmer, Natalie," Cameron once whispered in my ear. "You're the one who brings beauty to its final chapter. No matter how dazzling a life is, it needs a perfect ending, and you're the one who writes that last line."'

At that moment, I felt as if I had been abandoned by the whole world, only to be gently picked up by him alone. This understanding was like a drug, making me utterly addicted, unable to pull away.

Tonight was just the same. He took my kit from my hands and, without hesitation, slipped his fingers into mine. His palm was dry and warm, slowly melting away the chill in my fingertips.

When we reached the entrance of the funeral home, he suddenly paused and, under the soft glow of the streetlight, examined my hand with a quiet, focused gaze.

"Your hands," Cameron murmured, his voice low and captivated as he gently traced my knuckles with his thumb, "they make the final moment feel like a perfect ceremony."

My heart skipped a beat. I thought it was the sweetest love words I had ever heard. The light was too dim for me to catch it, but in his eyes, there was a flicker, something wild, a mix of obsession and possessiveness.