Chapter 3
"The cat's ashes?" Cannon asked.
"Just a pink pet memorial stone, with the name carved on it," I said.
Cannon took off his glasses and rubbed his temples. "Julissa, legally speaking, this case isn't complicated."
He flipped to Article 14 of the contract and underlined it with his pen.
"The contract for the grave site is clear. You can't move or transfer it without the buyer's written consent. He didn't even have your signature. That's a breach of contract, and it violates your right to mourn."
"What about compensation for emotional distress?" I asked.
"There's a precedent. In 2019, there was a case in Fairmont where someone moved ashes without permission and was ordered to pay 7,000 dollars in emotional damages.
"Your case is even worse; he didn't just move the ashes; he turned a human grave into a pet's resting place. The judge will see that, and the compensation will likely be even higher."
I nodded.
"There's another angle," Cannon said.
"The cemetery management," I said.
"Exactly. The staffer didn't check for the buyer's written authorization before moving the ashes, and he took 700 dollars.
"That's negligence and bribery. You can sue the cemetery management and file a complaint with the civil affairs department."
Cannon started outlining the case in his notebook.
"What about the third angle?" I asked.
I looked at him.
"The third one is the most damning. Turning a human grave in a commercial cemetery into a pet's resting place; you know better than anyone how serious that is," Cannon said.
I knew all too well.
I was one of the people who helped write the self-regulatory code for the city's funeral industry association.
Cannon said, "Commercial cemeteries aren't allowed to turn human graves into pet burial spots; that's right there in the local add-ons to the Funeral Management Regulations.
"Pinecrest Memorial Park went ahead and did it anyway, so they're already breaking the rules."
Cannon set his pen down. "Julissa, what's your plan? You want to go after all three at once?"
"All three."
"Alright, I'll start pulling together the documents today. But don't let Gerardo catch wind of this yet—"
"He doesn't know I've found out yet."
Cannon shot me a look. "When are you going to confront him?"
"When the summons lands in his hands."
By the time I left the law firm, it was already dark.
The late March night wind was even colder than during the day.
I sat in the car and shot Gerardo a text. [Working late tonight; I'll be home later.]
He replied instantly: [Okay, I left you some dinner.]
He tacked on a smiley face.
I stared at that smiley face for a long time.
March 15th, the day he went to Pinecrest Memorial Park and put my dad's ashes in that cold metal locker, he still came home that night and cooked for me.
My absolute favorite: braised ribs.
That night, I even posted a photo online with the caption: [My husband's cooking is the best in the world.]
Thirty-two people hit 'like.'
I scrolled up through our messages.
On March 14th, he sent: [Got some errands to run tomorrow, might not be home for lunch.]
I replied: [Alright, take care out there.]
What he actually did was move my dad's ashes from the sunny spot under the magnolia tree to a cold metal locker, and then put a cat's memorial stone where my dad used to rest.
On my phone screen, his profile picture was still our wedding photo.
I didn't reply.
I opened up his social media feed.
I scrolled back to March 15th.
He didn't post anything that day.
On March 16th, he posted a food review video with the caption: [The cheesecake at this place is insane.]
In the video, he was smiling like nothing was wrong, and a woman's hand reached in to grab a slice of cake.
All I saw was a hand.
Nails painted a muted rose pink.
It wasn't mine.
I never wear nail polish.
By the time I got home, it was already past nine.
The living room lights were on, and Gerardo was lounging on the couch, scrolling through his phone. When he saw me walk in, he glanced up.
"You're back. Dinner's still warm in the pot," he said.
I changed my shoes, but didn't head to the kitchen.
I walked over and sat down across from him.
"Gerardo Vaughan," I said.
When he heard me use his full name, he put his phone down.
I almost never called him by his full name.
"Did you go to Pinecrest Memorial Park on March 15th?" I asked.
He froze for a second.
Then his expression snapped back to normal, with a hint of annoyance.
"How did you find out?" he asked.
"It's Remembrance Day. I went to visit the grave," I said.
"Oh—" He tossed his phone onto the coffee table. "I was going to tell you, but you were always out on business trips, so I just forgot."
"Forgot what?"
"I just used your dad's grave for a while."