At my mother’s funeral, the last thing I expected was for the gravedigger to quietly step away from the group, peel off his gloves, and motion for me to come closer as if we were discussing private family matters. His name tag read Earl, and his face looked older than the cemetery itself. He kept his voice low.
“Ma’am,” he said, glancing toward the casket, “your mom paid me to bury an empty coffin.”
I stared at him, convinced grief had made me hear wrong.
“Stop fooling around.”
Earl didn’t smile. Instead, he slipped something cold into my hand. A brass key.
Tiny black numbers were stamped onto the metal tag attached to it: 16.
“Don’t go home,” he murmured. “Go to Unit 16. Right now.”
Before I could ask what he meant, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
I looked down and felt my stomach twist. A text from Mom flashed on the screen.
Come home alone.
My mother had been dead for six days. I had identified her body myself at St.
Joseph’s. I had signed the insurance forms. I had spent the morning shaking hands with people who kept telling me she was in a better place.
And now her name was glowing on my phone as if she had simply gone out to run errands.
I looked up, but Earl had already walked back toward the grave. The pastor was speaking. My aunt Linda was crying into a tissue.
No one else had noticed anything.
I should have told someone. Instead, I slipped the key into my purse, walked to my car, and left my own mother’s burial before the first shovel of dirt touched the coffin.
Unit 16 was inside a storage facility at the edge of town, twenty minutes from the cemetery and about a mile from the interstate. The place was almost deserted—just rows of metal doors and a flickering office sign that read SAFELOCK STORAGE.
My hands shook so badly I dropped the key twice before finally sliding it into the lock.
When the lock clicked open, I lifted the door about three feet and froze.
There was a folding chair, a lantern, three gallons of water, a legal file box, and sitting on the chair was my mother’s navy-blue handbag—the same one she had supposedly been carrying the night she died.
An envelope was taped to the purse with my name written across it in her handwriting.
For Emily. If you’re reading this, they lied to you first.
Just as I reached for it, I heard tires crunching on gravel behind me.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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