Even the funeral home director, Mr.

Thomas, stopped walking toward his black sedan and turned around to observe us with genuine concern.

I tried to wrap Lucas in a soothing hug, yet an odd chill traveled down my spine because he did not sound confused at all.

He spoke with the clear, unyielding confidence of someone who had witnessed something real that everyone else was foolishly ignoring.

A disturbing memory rushed back into my mind from the viewing service we had attended earlier that morning.

While I had stood alone beside the open mahogany box, Rachel’s skin had felt surprisingly warm against my fingers.

When I had asked Mr.

Thomas about that warmth before the chapel doors opened, he assured me that modern preservation fluids and ambient indoor climate controls frequently created unusual physical sensations.

His calm, practiced professional tone had quieted my racing doubts at the time.

Now, standing on the wet cemetery grass while my son begged for help, that forgotten sensation made my stomach knot in panic.

“Mr.

Thomas, is there any possible scenario where a patient’s vital signs could be misread before transfer?” I asked while standing up to face him directly.

“Mr.

Cooper, a licensed county medical examiner officially certified your wife’s passing before our staff transported her,” Mr.