Chapter 2 · The Missing Tombstone

Chapter 2

Zavier said, "He claimed he was the son-in-law of the person buried there, said he just needed to move the ashes for a bit and would bring them back in a few days."

"Did you check his ID?" I asked.

"He he showed his ID and a copy of his marriage certificate—"

"And the written authorization from the buyer?"

Zavier's mouth opened, but she couldn't say a word.

He stayed quiet.

I stared at him for five seconds.

"I'm asking you. Where's the buyer's written authorization?" I pushed.

"He said his wife was out of town and couldn't sign it in time, but he's definitely family," Zavier replied.

"Do you realize that under Article 14 of the Pinecrest Memorial Park contract, moving ashes needs the buyer's own written consent?"

"I... I know."

"So why didn't you do it by the book?"

Zavier's face turned bright red.

He dropped his gaze, his voice barely a whisper.

"He he gave me 700 dollars."

I closed my eyes for a moment.

For 300 dollars, my dad was taken from beneath the sunlit magnolia tree and shoved into a cold, north-facing metal locker.

I told Zavier to make copies of every single document from that day.

On the visitor log, the signature read: Gerardo Vaughan.

Relationship to the deceased: son-in-law.

For the reason of transfer, he scribbled: [Temporary adjustment.] Just two words, tossed out like they meant nothing.

I folded the copies and slipped them into my bag, then walked out of the management office. I didn't go home.

First, I headed to Section G.

Section G was at the very north end of the park, right up against the wall.

When I was planning the cemetery, I put the temporary storage area here because the ground was low and the drainage was awful. No way one would want a permanent grave here.

The storage lockers were set up in two rows of stainless steel shelves, 120 cubicles in total, each one a foot by a foot.

Third row from the end, bottom shelf.

I crouched down and looked through the little window on the locker door.

My dad's urn was lying there, quiet and still.

It was a rosewood urn, crafted from vintage wood my friend sourced for me in Brighton, with a lotus flower carved on it.

There was nothing else besides the urn, no photo, no offerings.

There was nothing to show that a person ever rested here.

It had been nineteen days since March 15th.

He'd been locked away in this metal locker for nineteen days.

There was no sunlight, no magnolia tree, not even the bag of his favorite milk candy I always brought for him.

The cubicle beside his was coated in dust.

A brass lock hung on the locker door, and the key was kept at the management office.

I didn't even try to open it.

I crouched there, laying my hand against the cold metal door.

The metal chilled me to the bone.

It was late March, but this place was still cold as ever.

My dad hated the cold.

During those last months of chemo, even in the summer, he needed two blankets just to stay warm.

He used to say to me, "Sweetheart, when it's my turn, make sure you find me a warm spot."

When I stood up, my knee scraped against the ground, the skin breaking open.

But I barely felt it.

Back in the car, I didn't start the engine.

I took out my phone and opened up my photo gallery.

I scrolled to a picture, the one from the day the tombstone was finally placed.

The sesame gray granite caught the sunlight, the epitaph etched perfectly, and the magnolia tree beside it was still waiting to bloom.

I remember it was a bright, sunny day.

I stood in front of the tombstone for a long time, talking to my dad. "Dad, this is the best design I've ever made. Do you like it?"

The wind stirred the magnolia branches, making them sway softly.

Right then, I felt like that was his way of answering me.

The phone screen dimmed.

I caught my own reflection; my eyes were red around the edges.

But there were no tears.

Crying wouldn't change a thing.

I studied funeral management and spent five years planning cemeteries.

I knew better than anyone what Gerardo did wasn't just "moving a grave."

From a legal standpoint, he moved the ashes without my permission, robbing me of my right to grieve for my dad.

And according to a Supreme Court ruling from 2019, what he did was a violation of the dignity and rights of close family members.

Legally, when it came to the contract, I was the one who signed for plot C-3-7.

Gerardo, even as my husband, wasn't on the contract and had zero authority to mess with it.

From the cemetery management angle, changing a human grave into a pet's resting place breaks the rules for commercial cemeteries.

Each one was enough to get him in deep trouble.

I started the car.

I didn't go home.

I went straight to the law firm.

My college buddy, Cannon Roy, was a legal advisor for the funeral industry, and his office was on the seventeenth floor of a downtown office building.

He looked through the contract copies and the visitor log I brought, then fell silent for about ten seconds.

"He actually took your dad's ashes out and put a cat in?" Cannon finally asked.

"Yeah," I replied.

Chapter 2

Zavier said, "He claimed he was the son-in-law of the person buried there, said he just needed to move the ashes for a bit and would bring them back in a few days."

"Did you check his ID?" I asked.

"He he showed his ID and a copy of his marriage certificate—"

"And the written authorization from the buyer?"

Zavier's mouth opened, but she couldn't say a word.

He stayed quiet.

I stared at him for five seconds.

"I'm asking you. Where's the buyer's written authorization?" I pushed.

"He said his wife was out of town and couldn't sign it in time, but he's definitely family," Zavier replied.

"Do you realize that under Article 14 of the Pinecrest Memorial Park contract, moving ashes needs the buyer's own written consent?"

"I... I know."

"So why didn't you do it by the book?"

Zavier's face turned bright red.

He dropped his gaze, his voice barely a whisper.

"He he gave me 700 dollars."

I closed my eyes for a moment.

For 300 dollars, my dad was taken from beneath the sunlit magnolia tree and shoved into a cold, north-facing metal locker.

I told Zavier to make copies of every single document from that day.

On the visitor log, the signature read: Gerardo Vaughan.

Relationship to the deceased: son-in-law.

For the reason of transfer, he scribbled: [Temporary adjustment.] Just two words, tossed out like they meant nothing.

I folded the copies and slipped them into my bag, then walked out of the management office. I didn't go home.

First, I headed to Section G.

Section G was at the very north end of the park, right up against the wall.

When I was planning the cemetery, I put the temporary storage area here because the ground was low and the drainage was awful. No way one would want a permanent grave here.

The storage lockers were set up in two rows of stainless steel shelves, 120 cubicles in total, each one a foot by a foot.

Third row from the end, bottom shelf.

I crouched down and looked through the little window on the locker door.

My dad's urn was lying there, quiet and still.

It was a rosewood urn, crafted from vintage wood my friend sourced for me in Brighton, with a lotus flower carved on it.

There was nothing else besides the urn, no photo, no offerings.

There was nothing to show that a person ever rested here.

It had been nineteen days since March 15th.

He'd been locked away in this metal locker for nineteen days.

There was no sunlight, no magnolia tree, not even the bag of his favorite milk candy I always brought for him.

The cubicle beside his was coated in dust.

A brass lock hung on the locker door, and the key was kept at the management office.

I didn't even try to open it.

I crouched there, laying my hand against the cold metal door.

The metal chilled me to the bone.

It was late March, but this place was still cold as ever.

My dad hated the cold.

During those last months of chemo, even in the summer, he needed two blankets just to stay warm.

He used to say to me, "Sweetheart, when it's my turn, make sure you find me a warm spot."

When I stood up, my knee scraped against the ground, the skin breaking open.

But I barely felt it.

Back in the car, I didn't start the engine.

I took out my phone and opened up my photo gallery.

I scrolled to a picture, the one from the day the tombstone was finally placed.

The sesame gray granite caught the sunlight, the epitaph etched perfectly, and the magnolia tree beside it was still waiting to bloom.

I remember it was a bright, sunny day.

I stood in front of the tombstone for a long time, talking to my dad. "Dad, this is the best design I've ever made. Do you like it?"

The wind stirred the magnolia branches, making them sway softly.

Right then, I felt like that was his way of answering me.

The phone screen dimmed.

I caught my own reflection; my eyes were red around the edges.

But there were no tears.

Crying wouldn't change a thing.

I studied funeral management and spent five years planning cemeteries.

I knew better than anyone what Gerardo did wasn't just "moving a grave."

From a legal standpoint, he moved the ashes without my permission, robbing me of my right to grieve for my dad.

And according to a Supreme Court ruling from 2019, what he did was a violation of the dignity and rights of close family members.

Legally, when it came to the contract, I was the one who signed for plot C-3-7.

Gerardo, even as my husband, wasn't on the contract and had zero authority to mess with it.

From the cemetery management angle, changing a human grave into a pet's resting place breaks the rules for commercial cemeteries.

Each one was enough to get him in deep trouble.

I started the car.

I didn't go home.

I went straight to the law firm.

My college buddy, Cannon Roy, was a legal advisor for the funeral industry, and his office was on the seventeenth floor of a downtown office building.

He looked through the contract copies and the visitor log I brought, then fell silent for about ten seconds.

"He actually took your dad's ashes out and put a cat in?" Cannon finally asked.

"Yeah," I replied.