Chapter 8: The Funeral That Never Happened
The following morning, Margaret took us to a private bank in downtown Atlanta.
She had spent most of the night speaking with investigators and reviewing the documents we'd collected. She looked exhausted, but when the bank manager led us into a secure consultation room, her attention sharpened.
Daniel placed the brass key on the desk.
"We need access to a safe deposit box registered to Thomas Hale.""
The manager examined it without touching it.
"I'm afraid I can't release information about another client's accounts.""
Margaret slid her business card across the desk.
"We aren't asking you to disclose confidential financial information without authorization. We're asking you to preserve any records associated with this key. It may be connected to suspected financial fraud.""
The manager studied her credentials.
"I'll contact our legal department.""
While he stepped into the hallway, Daniel paced beside the window.
I sat with the journal in my lap, rereading my mother's warning about Denise.
"If Richard is alive," I said, "why did everyone believe he was dead?""
Daniel stopped pacing.
"Maybe because someone wanted them to.""
"That doesn't explain the funeral.""
I remembered the church, the flowers, and my mother clutching my hand so tightly that my fingers hurt. I remembered a closed casket and my father telling me not to ask too many questions.
Margaret returned to the room.
"There's a complication. The bank records show that Thomas closed his safe deposit box three months ago.""
Daniel swore under his breath.
"Did he remove everything?""
"The bank can't tell us without proper authorization or a court order.""
I leaned forward.
"Can we get a court order?""
"Possibly. But it will take time, and Thomas may move anything else he has before we can act.""
Margaret gathered the documents.
"There's another route. We can establish whether Richard Bennett is alive through the records surrounding his reported death.""
She turned to me.
"Do you remember the name of the funeral home?""
"Peachtree Memorial Services.""
"Good. We'll start there.""
An hour later, we stood inside a small funeral home on a quiet residential street. The director, a gray-haired man named Mr. Lawson, listened as Margaret explained that we were investigating inconsistencies in an old death record.
He looked uncomfortable.
"I can't discuss private arrangements without authorization.""
Margaret placed a copy of the death certificate on his desk.
"We're not asking for family gossip. We need to verify whether this establishment handled the remains of Richard Bennett.""
Mr. Lawson examined the document.
Then he removed his glasses.
"I'm sorry, but we don't have a complete file under that name.""
My stomach dropped.
"What does that mean?""
He turned toward a filing cabinet and pulled out a large ledger.
"It means I remember the case, but the records were transferred to another provider. The family requested a private arrangement.""
"Was there a body?"" Daniel asked.
Mr. Lawson looked at him.
"I don't recall seeing one.""
The room seemed to tilt.
I gripped the edge of the desk.
"You buried my grandfather without seeing his body?""
"I didn't say that. I said I personally didn't handle the transfer.""
"Was there an open casket?""
"No.""
"Did anyone identify the remains?""
Mr. Lawson hesitated.
"The paperwork indicates the family waived a viewing.""
Margaret leaned forward.
"Who signed the waiver?""
He turned several pages.
Then he pointed to a line near the bottom.
"Robert Bennett.""
My father.
I stared at the signature.
"Why would my father sign the funeral documents for my grandfather?""
Mr. Lawson closed the ledger.
"I can't answer that.""
Daniel's voice was low.
"Could there have been no body at all?""
The funeral director looked away.
"That's a question for the authorities.""
Outside, the sunlight felt harsh against my eyes.
I sat on a bench near the parking lot, trying to reconcile the man who had tucked me into bed every night after my mother's death with the signature on the funeral paperwork.
Daniel sat beside me.
"Do you think he knew?""
"About Granddad being alive?""
"About everything.""
I looked at the journal.
"I don't know what to think anymore.""
He was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, "When I was sixteen, Thomas took me to a storage facility. He told me he was retrieving old family documents. I remember seeing your mother's name on a box.""
I turned toward him.
"Where was it?""
"Near the airport. Somewhere south of the city.""
"Can you find it?""
"I remember the road. I think I can.""
Margaret approached us, holding her phone.
"The police have agreed to examine the death certificate. But there's a more immediate problem.""
She showed us a message from an investigator.
A vehicle matching the description of the dark sedan had been found abandoned near the motel. Inside, officers discovered a photograph of my mother and a handwritten note.
The note contained four words.
The daughter must disappear.
My blood ran cold.
"That's about me.""
"Probably," Margaret said.
"The police are treating it as a potential threat.""
Daniel stood.
"We need to find that storage facility.""
Margaret shook her head.
"We need to keep you both safe.""
"And if we wait, they'll move the evidence," I replied.
She looked between us.
Finally, she nodded.
"We'll notify the investigator, and we'll go together. No one separates from the group.""
We drove south, following Daniel's uncertain directions until we reached a sprawling storage complex surrounded by a chain-link fence.
Rows of identical metal doors stretched beneath the afternoon sun.
Daniel walked slowly along the buildings, searching the numbers.
"Here," he said at last.
Unit 214.
A heavy padlock hung from the door.
Margaret contacted the police and waited for instructions. While we stood outside, I noticed a strip of yellow tape tucked beneath the lock.
It had a handwritten number on it.
The same number from my mother's journal.
My heart pounded.
"Margaret, look.""
She examined the tape.
"This unit is connected to the trust.""
Before she could say anything else, a security guard approached.
"Can I help you?""
Margaret showed her identification.
"We're here concerning a legal matter involving this unit.""
The guard checked his tablet.
"That unit was accessed yesterday.""
"By whom?"" I asked.
He hesitated.
"An authorized visitor.""
"Name?""
He turned the screen toward us.
The access log showed a name and a time.
Richard Bennett.
My grandfather had visited the storage unit less than twenty-four hours earlier.
He was alive.
And he knew we were looking for him.
Margaret called the investigator again, asking for urgent assistance. Daniel stood rigid beside me, his hands clenched.
I stared at the locked door.
"What's inside?""
The guard shook his head.
"I don't know. But whoever rented this unit left a message for the next visitor.""
He pointed toward a small envelope taped to the metal door.
My name was written across it.
I opened it carefully.
Inside was a photograph of a woman I didn't recognize, holding a newborn baby.
On the back, someone had written:
Sarah didn't die that night.
My breath caught.
Below the sentence was a date.
The day of my mother's funeral.
May you like
And a final line.
The woman in the coffin was someone else.
