I saw a man managing a project.

And once I had seen it, once, I could not unsee it, and every polished thing he did after that only made the cold in me colder.

And behind everything, the clock was running.

He had refused an autopsy.

He was cremating her that afternoon.

In a matter of hours, my daughter’s body — and whatever it might still be able to tell anyone — would be gone past all recovering, turned to ash before a single question could be asked of it.

I understood, standing in that cloud of lilies, that I had until the end of the service.