When it came to treating all living things as equals, the Inmeles family's hearse truly went above and beyond: whether passengers were alive or dead, riding in it was sheer torment.
Ron had long grown used to it. He wedged his head into a corner of the carriage and sat with his feet splayed in a w-sit. For a burly, heavyset man, the posture looked utterly bizarre, but it gave him the greatest possible stability—so much so that he was already snoring, catching up on his sleep.
Karen, on the other hand, was having a miserable time. He had to keep propping his hands against the floorboards just to maintain his balance. The roads within the city hadn't been so bad, but once they left the urban area and headed into the suburbs, conditions deteriorated sharply. The constant jolting was excruciating.
To make matters worse, all the jostling had sent Jeff and Mr. Mossan shamelessly rolling into each other's arms, tangled together like a pair of lovers lying in bed and whispering sweet nothings.
Unable to watch any longer, Karen tried more than once to pull the "two of them" apart. But space was limited in the back, and no sooner were they separated than the bumping motion had them seeking each other out once more, locking back into their embrace.
If any family members had accompanied the vehicle, this never would have happened. At the very least, the dead would have been spared most of the jostling inside coffins.
Yet Jeff was a solitary soul who had hitched a ride on a welfare case, while Mr. Mossan, though technically not a welfare case, was effectively treated as one.
Karen was in no position to carp about his family's work ethic. Even if he had cooked lunch today, he was still nothing more than a parasite in this household.
Finally, with Uncle Mason swinging the steering wheel to the left, the hearse rolled into a courtyard that resembled a small industrial facility. A sign hung beside the gate: Hughes Crematorium.
"Hey, Ron, wake up!" Uncle Mason shouted, rapping his knuckles on the partition glass.
"Oh, oh, we're here." Ron wiped away his drool and stretched lazily.
Karen helped lower the gurney first. Then, working with Ron, he carried out Jeff and Mr. Mossan one after the other, while Uncle Mason held the gurney steady so it wouldn't roll away.
Just then, a middle-aged woman in gray work overalls walked over, holding a pen and paper.
"My, what a handsome young man."
Her eyes fixed onto Karen immediately.
"Hello there, Mrs. Hughes," Ron greeted her warmly.
Was this the Mrs. Hughes whom Paul claimed was fond of Ron?
Yet, faced with Ron's enthusiasm, Mrs. Hughes merely twitched the corner of her mouth to make a noncommittal sound, turning most of her attention back to Karen.
In truth, Mrs. Hughes was quite attractive. Even beneath her overalls, one could tell she possessed a voluptuous figure, and her skin was fair.
Still, when her hand reached out to pinch his cheek, Karen awkwardly drew her hand away.
He might have grown accustomed to his new body's good looks, but he was certainly not used to being playfully flirted with like a little boy.
Yet Mrs. Hughes simply flipped her hand and caught Karen's, her fingertips trailing back and forth across his palm in an overt, teasing stroke.
In her gaze, Karen caught that familiar greed middle-aged men displayed when sizing up a young girl's figure.
"That's Karen, my brother's son," Uncle Mason said, offering her a cigarette.
"Oh?" Mrs. Hughes sounded mildly surprised. "Your nephew?"
She accepted the cigarette, had Mason light it for her, and continued, "Haven't seen him before."
"One of our boys had something come up at home, and I took a bit of a tumble," Uncle Mason explained.
"An injury?"
"Slipped and fell, that's all."
"Whose wife's windowsill were you climbing over when you fell?"
"Don't joke like that. By the way, are things busy today?"
"There's one ahead of you, in the furnace now. Won't take long."
"Only one furnace running?"
"I'd love to run more, but you'd need to bring me enough people to burn. Heating up a furnace doesn't cost money?"
"Fine, fine, fine. Let's wheel our 'guests' inside first."
"All right. I'll head in and make the arrangements. See you in a bit, handsome." Mrs. Hughes shot Karen a flirtatious wink, then turned and strolled ahead of them.
Ron pushed Mr. Mossan alone, while Mason helped Karen push Jeff's gurney.
"Mrs. Hughes is a very passionate woman," Mason said, keeping his voice low.
"Yes, she seems to be," Karen agreed, nodding.
"Her husband passed away early, so she manages the crematorium herself now. She never remarried, but she's had no shortage of lovers around her."
"Uncle, you don't need to tell me all this."
"Hey, I have to give you a heads-up. I was your age once, too." Mason reached out and tapped the iron plate of the gurney, making it clang. "A lad your age could punch right through an iron sheet with his morning wood."
"..." Karen was speechless.
"You're getting older now. Find yourself a proper girlfriend down the road," Mason urged.
"All right, Uncle, I understand."
Karen knew Mason wasn't trying to badmouth Mrs. Hughes; he simply didn't want his young nephew losing control and having his soul snatched away by her.
Heading further inside, Karen caught a distinct, greasy smell.
It was heavy and cloying... neither sweet nor fragrant, reminiscent of a moldy bedroom during the rainy season.
The furnishings were visibly aged; this was clearly a crematorium with quite a few years behind it.
"Years back, this place almost went under. It came close to being bought out by another large crematorium."
"What happened?" Karen asked.
"Then someone caught onto that big crematorium's little secret. To cut costs, they ran their furnaces only at night. So they were handing out yesterday's ashes to today's grieving families."
At this revelation, Karen's eyes widened. *People actually pulled that off?*
"Wouldn't that mean..."
"Right. You brought in your own family to be cremated, and walked away clutching a stranger's ashes. The punchline is that they kept it up for years without anyone noticing."
"That's horrific."
"Once the story broke, the owner got his head bashed in with a rock one night. The police couldn't even find the killer—there were simply too many suspects with a motive."
Karen nodded. "He got what he deserved."
Putting himself in their shoes, if he had brought a loved one here in the depths of grief only to carry home the ashes of an utter stranger—and then worshipped that urn for years—Karen felt he would have had the urge to kill someone too.
"After that big operation went bankrupt, Mrs. Hughes's place managed to survive and keep running. But times are getting tough again. Other cities have already seen the rise of massive funeral service chains.
"They link everything together, from the hospital to our bereavement parlor, all the way to the crematorium, including transportation.
"They opened a branch in Rojia City as well. Winnie got a call from them a while back, asking about buying us out."
"Grandfather wouldn't agree," Karen said.
"Of course Father wouldn't agree, and neither would I! Do you know what they do? They gather the bodies for mass transport, mass management, mass mourning, and mass cremation or burial.
"Like wholesale vegetables at a market.
"Those capitalists ought to be hung from the lampposts!
"All they see is money. They don't know the first thing about caring for the departed, nor do they understand respect for the dead!"
Hearing this, Karen couldn't help picturing Jeff and Mr. Mossan being bounced around in the back of the hearse until their lips practically met.
*Uncle, how do you have the nerve to say the word 'respect'?*
"Our family is still doing fine. Even though they've been trying to squeeze our suppliers, Father's connections have kept business steady enough." Uncle Mason's tone grew noticeably subdued. "Mrs. Hughes, though... her situation is getting difficult again."
Just then, Ron, who was pushing Mr. Mossan ahead of them, glanced back and called out:
"Aha, that's why I support the Jacob Party! They're the only ones willing to throw a punch right back at those damn capitalists!"
As he spoke, Ron pumped his fist in the air.
The Jacob Party was something Karen had read about in the newspapers a few days ago—a left-wing party that had emerged in Rojia City and gained solid momentum in recent years.
However, the moment Uncle Mason heard the words "Jacob Party," he snapped:
"Are you out of your mind? Let those lunatics take power, and they'll make a complete mess of our lives!"
Ron merely shrugged, seemingly unwilling to argue with his boss, and continued pushing the gurney.
Karen glanced at Uncle Mason, whose neck was red with indignation. He could actually understand his uncle's perspective; Mason was practically the textbook definition of petty-bourgeois cowardice.
It wasn't an insult—or perhaps it sounded like one—but at its core, people's sympathies were dictated by their social class.
After following a relatively short corridor, Karen and the others finally wheeled the gurneys into the cremation room.
There were three cremation furnaces inside, though only one was in operation.
Through the glass partition, Karen spotted a man with disheveled hair and a scruffy beard sitting on the floor.
At that moment, the operating furnace hummed to a halt.
A grey-haired but energetic worker pushed open the door and called out to the man:
"Sir, please come collect your wife."
Then, catching sight of Mason, the old worker smiled and waved in greeting.
"Hey, Mason."
"Old Darcy!"
Uncle Mason stepped forward and offered Old Darcy a cigarette.
"How many today?" Old Darcy asked as he lit it.
Mason flashed two fingers.
"Oh, God have mercy on you." Old Darcy chuckled with schadenfreude.
He knew full well how much of a loss cremation meant for the Inmeles family.
In truth, it wasn't an actual financial loss, but earth burials yielded far higher profit margins. Missing out on profits that could have been made was, in their eyes, a "loss."
"Sir, please come collect your wife," Old Darcy urged once more, blowing a ring of smoke.
The man looked up blankly, then got up in silence. But the moment his eyes landed on the furnace behind the glass, he backed against the wall again, seemingly resisting the reality before him.
Indeed, who could easily accept that their beloved partner had just been reduced to a pile of ashes?
Karen heard Uncle Mason ask Old Darcy in a low voice, "What's the matter with him?"
Taking a drag from his cigarette, Old Darcy shook his head with mild contempt and whispered back, "No tip, and refused to buy an urn from our parlor. Hmph."
If a client gave a tip or purchased "accessories" from the establishment, they would naturally receive special treatment.
For instance, if one felt afraid or squeamish, Old Darcy the cremator would help pack the ashes into the urn and hand it over.
Of course, if someone insisted on collecting their loved one's remains with their own hands, Old Darcy would also thoughtfully crush the bones into smaller pieces so they would fit.
Whether the man had no money or genuinely didn't know the ropes, there was nothing in his eyes except sheer bewilderment.
Seeing his dazed expression, Old Darcy scoffed dismissively. "A psychology professor, no less, and he doesn't even know the basics."
*Hmm?*
That profession caught Karen's attention.
What a coincidence—a fellow practitioner.
Karen took the initiative to step forward, looked at the man, and said softly, "You should go receive your wife now."
"I... I..." The man's hands were trembling.
It was clear he was undergoing a violent internal struggle.
In truth, when two people shared deep affection and lived together for years, seeing a loved one's body or ashes wouldn't inspire the sort of terror found in a horror film; instead, it felt... profoundly ordinary.
Yet some people possessed unique psychological dispositions. In his past life, Karen had once treated a patient who loved his wife dearly and had chosen to accompany her into the delivery room. It was an act of devotion, but... it had left him with severe psychological trauma. In the end, he was forced to divorce her, and his condition deteriorated to the point where the sight of women or young children made him tremble with fear.
"Are you afraid of your own wife?" Old Darcy pressed. "Hurry it up, there are people waiting in line."
"I... I'm not..." A look of agony and self-reproach crossed the man's face. Clearly, Old Darcy's barb about being afraid of his wife had struck a nerve, saddling him with deep guilt.
Psychological issues often had both a mental component and a visceral, somatic one. The mental aspect was relatively easy to overcome, but visceral reactions were truly difficult to manage.
"I'm not... I'm not afraid of her... it's just... it's just that I..."
Karen sighed.
Reaching out, he patted the man on the shoulder.
*All right, for the sake of a fellow practitioner.*
Karen turned and walked back to Mason.
"Uncle, we're in a hurry to get home anyway. Let me go help him gather her ashes."
Hearing this, Old Darcy felt a twinge of displeasure and remarked in an indifferent tone, "Your nephew sure is kindhearted."
There wasn't a shred of praise in his voice.
Mason shrugged. "Old Darcy, I'm in a rush to get back too. If I'm late, Mary will blame me again."
"Fine, fine, fine."
Old Darcy gave in.
"Wheel one of your bodies up first. I'll go gather the bones."
Ron wheeled Mr. Mossan inside. After a brief hesitation, Karen helped Ron lift Mr. Mossan onto the furnace's feeder tray.
Even though Mr. Mossan had "manifested" last night and expressed his desperate wish not to be cremated, Karen had no way to help him. Even if the previous Karen had left behind six thousand lubi—enough to buy a casket at cost price—what about the burial plot expenses?
Most importantly, what right or reason did he have to ask the family to grant special treatment to an ordinary client?
Grandfather was still alive, and even if Grandfather were gone, Uncle was still here.
It wasn't his turn to run this household... nor was it his turn to squander its fortunes.
With that taken care of, Karen walked over to Old Darcy and watched as the old man stirred the ashes with an iron poker.
Old Darcy glanced back at Karen standing behind him and asked, "First time here?"
"Yes."
"Never seen this before?"
"Never."
"Quite the young master, aren't you?" Old Darcy teased.
A male of the Inmeles family seeing ashes for the first time.
Karen pointed at the pile of bones on the tray. "Shouldn't it be ash?"
He placed a subtle emphasis on the word "ash."
In his memory, cremated remains were supposed to be white, flour-like powder.
What lay before him, however, was a heap of bone fragments. There was ash, but bone chunks made up the majority, and quite large ones at that.
Old Darcy looked puzzled. "This is how it always looks."
"Oh, I see."
Karen realized that the films and TV shows from his past life had lied to him.
Seeing Old Darcy toss a spent cigarette butt to the floor, Karen reached into his pocket, pulled out the pack Paul had given him, drew a cigarette, and handed it over.
Accepting the cigarette, Old Darcy's expression softened considerably, though he didn't forget to offer a word of caution:
"Being a good person doesn't work like this."
"Haha." Karen understood what he meant, so he offered an explanation: "He visited our school before and gave a public lecture. In a way, he was my teacher."
Hearing that reason, Old Darcy smacked his lips around the filter.
"Is that so."
With that, Old Darcy pulled a glove onto his left hand, picked up a small iron hammer with his right, and crouched down.
He began tapping and pounding the larger bones, breaking them down into smaller fragments.
"Does everyone take the ashes back like this?" Karen asked curiously.
Old Darcy chuckled dryly. "Most people only take a portion of them."
"Oh." Karen paused. "Um..."
"Can't you see I'm doing it? For your uncle's sake," Old Darcy said, shrugging his shoulders as he continued pounding the bones. "And for your grandfather's, too."
The larger bone chunks were broken down one by one.
Old Darcy stopped, gesturing toward a counter diagonally ahead where a row of urns in various styles were lined up.
"Bring one over."
"Oh, all right."
Karen walked over and glanced at them, discovering that even the cheapest urn cost a full 1,000 lubi.
Half a month's wages for an ordinary worker.
Of course, there were more expensive ones. Karen spotted an exquisite, ornate urn marked at 50,000 lubi.
However, it was coated in a thick layer of dust—clearly a veteran prop that had sat there for ages.
After all, aside from religious reasons, many who opted for cremation did so because it was cheaper than an earth burial. A 50,000-lubi urn was destined to find few takers.
Karen picked up the 1,000-lubi urn and brought it to Old Darcy.
"Um, I'll have my uncle pay you for this."
Old Darcy let out a small laugh and waved his hand generously. "No need."
"How could I let you do that? It's 1,000 lubi."
"Cost price is fifty. Wholesale is even cheaper."
"..." Karen was speechless.
*Damn, that's highway robbery.*
Old Darcy gave him a curious look. "Did you never help out with the family business before?"
"I... no."
That part of memory truly didn't exist in the previous Karen's mind.
"No wonder. The coffins and clothes your family sells are marked up pretty much the same way."
"Is that so?"
Karen offered an awkward smile.
*Ha, turns out my family is just as predatory.*
Old Darcy began loading the remains. Based on their size and shape, he selected pieces for the bottom, the sides, and the middle...
Distinct layers, meticulously arranged.
It reminded Karen of plating food before serving.
In the end, with practically nothing left behind, Old Darcy had placed nearly all the remains inside the urn.
The skull, which was exceptionally hard and difficult to incinerate, was placed right in the center on top.
Then, with a crisp snap, Old Darcy latched the urn shut.
"Take it to him."
"All right. Thank you."
"Hmph."
Karen bent down and picked up the urn.
It was hard to imagine that not long ago, this had been a living, breathing person. Even before entering the furnace, she had been whole.
Now, she rested inside the box in his hands.
Karen walked out. As he approached the man, the fellow instinctively reached out with both hands, yet shrank back hesitantly.
"She... she..."
"I've brought your wife out. Please don't mind me; I'm simply placing her hand in yours."
Hearing those words, the man's expression softened dramatically, and his voice steadied somewhat:
"No... you are a true gentleman."
He finally reached out, took his wife's urn, and cradled it against his chest.
"My Linda... is she truly gone?"
Karen replied, "Physically speaking, she has indeed left us."
"Then..." The man looked up, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
"Yet in the world of the spirit, she remains alive—living within your thoughts.
"So long as you remember her, she is there."
"Yes, yes!" The man nodded fervently. "As long as I remember her, she is here. She's still by my side. No, she's even closer to me now. My Linda."
A smile appeared on his face—not a twisted, manic grin, but a warm, gentle, radiant one.
"Linda belonged to the Berry religion. According to the doctrine, her body had to be cremated. You know, bringing her to a crematorium felt like torture to me.
"Thank you. Ever since Linda passed, all my friends have been telling me to move on, to accept that she's gone. You're the first person to tell me she's still here. Thank you. I am truly, truly grateful."
"You're welcome."
Cradling the urn, the man turned and walked away.
Karen leaned quietly against the corridor wall, slowly drawing out a cigarette.
Just then, Mason walked over and asked with a touch of irritation, "When did you learn to smoke? Who taught you?"
Karen replied, "Aunt Mary."
Karen wasn't lying. The very first cigarette he had smoked since waking up in this world had been handed to him by Aunt Mary.
"Uh... all right then."
Uncle Mason instantly softened his tone and changed the subject:
"Karen, I know you have a good heart, but you can't help everyone. If you get into the habit of being too kind, you'll find there are far too many people in this world who need help."
"Uncle, I was only..." Karen wanted to explain, but he had no way to justify the "fellow practitioner" reasoning, so he could only nod. "Yes, Uncle, I know I can't help everyone."
"No, it's not a matter of whether you can or can't. It's that when you see more and more people needing help and you're powerless to do anything, it eats away at you."
Karen paused, then nodded. "You're right."
Mason looked pleased with Karen's response. He shrugged and added, "Besides, most of the time, being a good person doesn't bring any good reward."
No sooner had the words left his mouth than the man who had just walked off cradling the urn came jogging back. Stopping in front of Karen, he bowed deeply once more.
Caught off guard by the gesture, Karen instinctively bowed back.
"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry! I forgot that I haven't paid for the urn yet."
The man produced a worn, clearly antique wallet.
Naturally, all those descriptive words were pale and meaningless, because the only defining characteristic of that wallet was its thickness.
It was thick. More accurately, it was bursting at the seams!
Stuffed so full it couldn't even close!
The hundred-lubi banknotes bore the portrait of Emperor Rotland from the history of Ruilan, and at this moment, Emperor Rotland's face was stretched so tight he seemed ready to catapult right out!
It turned out the man hadn't been too poor to afford cremation, nor too cheap to tip, nor too broke to buy an urn. Rather... the thought had never crossed his mind. He simply lacked the practical life experience of paying his way to convenience.
"I already paid the cremation fee earlier. How much is the urn?" the man asked. "Apologies, I nearly walked off holding Linda's hand without paying."
"Fi—*cough*—one thousand lubi."
Karen had almost said the fifty-lubi cost price.
Then he recalled that Old Darcy had indeed helped out and arranged the remains properly. That one thousand lubi ought to go toward settling the urn's price.
He had no intention of pocketing the difference.
After all, he hadn't lacked petty cash in his past life, and in this life he had no immediate worries about food or shelter. The previous Karen had even left him six thousand lubi in private savings.
"Very well."
The man took out every single banknote from the wallet, tucked the empty wallet away, and handed the thick stack of cash straight to Karen.
The sheer thickness...
The sheer weight...
Uncle Mason's eyes bulged at the sight.
And Karen, who moments ago hadn't cared for petty cash, found his own eyes widening slightly.
This thick wad had to be at least twenty thousand lubi—if not more!
Swallowing instinctively, Karen said, "You've given... far too much."
"Not at all! This is your fee for psychological consultation. The service you provided me was worth every penny. No—you gave Linda back to me! This little bit of money cannot begin to repay the immense help you've given me!
"It's just that I only had time to withdraw this much cash from the bank earlier. Had I known, I would have taken out more..."
"No, no, no, this is plenty. More than enough," Karen hurried to reassure him.
"I... I didn't bring any business cards. My name is Piaget—Piaget Adams. Where is my card, where is it... Do you have one? I'd like to contact you in the future to discuss these matters further."
"I don't—"
"We do, we do!"
Uncle Mason immediately pulled out one of his own business cards and offered it over. It bore the title: *Inmeles Bereavement Services*.
Taking the card, Piaget smiled. "I will come visit you at this address in the future. Thank you once again."
With that, Piaget bowed to Karen once more.
Clutching the thick stack of bills, Karen hastily returned the bow.
Then, "holding" his wife's hand, Piaget took his leave once again.
Karen counted out one thousand lubi to give to Old Darcy later.
The rest of the money he offered to Mason.
Mason merely chuckled, pushed the cash back, and said, "Keep it for yourself."
"Doesn't it go into the family pool?" Karen asked.
It was a lot of money, true, but compared to his life, his life took priority.
If he handed the income over to the household:
*Hey, Diss, see that?*
*Not only can I cook, but I can also make money!*
*So please don't kill me!*
"He said it himself: it's your fee for... what was it, consultation? Then it's yours. Just hold onto it. Keep it safe, or tomorrow I'll take you to the bank to open an account and deposit it."
"Thank you, Uncle."
"Don't mention it, don't mention it." Mason reached over, slung an arm across Karen's shoulder, and asked, "What you said to that... Piaget, was it? I heard all of it. I didn't quite follow, but I could tell you comforted him well.
"How come I never knew you could talk to people like that?"
The previous Karen had been autistic; how could he have ever engaged in heart-to-heart talks with anyone?
"I read about it in books and picked up a bit."
"Oh, I see! When we get back, I'll talk it over with your aunt. We could expand our business to include a new service, just like today—psychological counseling, or psychotherapy.
"You know, those grieving families are in so much pain. They need someone to comfort them."
Karen understood Mason's angle.
In fact, in his past life, higher-end funeral homes always employed grief counselors to comfort the relatives of the deceased and provide psychological support.
"Can you do that?" Mason continued. "I mean, only if you're up to it."
"I can. No problem at all."
Karen's answer was crisp and direct, stemming from his professional confidence.
"Wonderful! You have no idea—every time I see those grieving families, my heart just aches for them..." Mason clutched his chest.
"You're very kind, Uncle..."
"Because I know people aren't rational in that state, and they're willing to spend far more money than usual. Yet I don't have enough services on the bill to charge them for! Every time I think about that, my heart just aches."
"..." Karen had no words.
"Are you really giving Old Darcy one thousand lubi?" Mason asked.
"Yes," Karen nodded.
"All right, I'll take it to him." Mason took the thousand lubi and headed inside to find Old Darcy.
Beyond the glass wall, Old Darcy used an iron poker to slit an opening across Mr. Mossan's belly, then pushed him into the cremation furnace.
Karen saw Mason walk up to Old Darcy. The old cremator looked surprised at first, then broke into a grin, deliberately turning toward Karen through the glass to tip his cap and bow.
Just then, Ron ambled out, lighting a cigarette to relax.
"Ron."
"Yeah? Something you need, Master Karen?"
Karen took out five hundred lubi and handed it to Ron.
"What's this for...?" Ron asked, bewildered.
"That gentleman gave it earlier. Share and share alike."
"Really? Thank you, young master, thank you!"
Ron slipped the money into his pocket, overjoyed. He had no wife and lived paycheck to paycheck, often having to pay off debts from the previous month the moment his wages came in. An extra five hundred lubi was enough for him to live it up at the tavern for two nights.
Karen spoke up, "By the way, Ron, did the authorities call you to pick up Jeff's body?"
Completely off his guard, Ron answered readily:
"No. That morning, we were supposed to head over to Flower Water Bay Nursing Home to pick up Mr. Mossan. But when we passed Mink Street... number 125 or 130, somewhere around there... anyway, right by the street trash cans, we found Jeff frozen to death.
"We had to bring Jeff back first before picking up Mr. Mossan. The welfare case was something Mr. Mason applied for after the fact."
*Just as I thought!*
Uncle Mason's words from earlier, when he drove past that row house—number 128—immediately flashed through Karen's mind:
*"Her household ran into some trouble the day before yesterday. She asked for my help, so I helped her deal with it... She and her husband are looking for a new place and getting ready to move..."*
So Uncle Mason had helped his first love's family dispose of a corpse!
*Wait a minute...*
Karen suddenly realized something.
He had "seen" visions on the bodies of both Mr. Mossan and Jeff.
Mr. Mossan's lingering obsession had been his refusal to be cremated, which Aunt Mary had confirmed was genuine—due to his religious faith, Mr. Mossan was adamantly opposed to cremation.
And if what he had seen on Mr. Mossan was real...
Then the woman he had seen on Jeff—the one with only a pair of legs and a face—wasn't that... real as well?
The scene on the second floor when they drove past that house flashed into Karen's mind: those bare legs, and those red high heels!
Which meant...
Inside the home of his uncle's first love,
there was currently living... a monster!
Chapter 9