Chapter 88. The Funeral Director’s Death

Chapter 88. The Funeral Director’s Death

The call came just after dawn.

Elijah was still half-dressed, still shaking from the night before, still hearing Tom’s terrified voice in his head—They’re coming. But by the time Elijah had gotten Eden into the car and reached a safe house Lila had arranged two towns over, the threat had evaporated into silence. For now.

He hadn’t slept. Neither had Eden.

So when his phone buzzed, he answered before the second ring.

A voice he didn’t immediately place said, “You should come to the funeral home. Now.”

He knew that tone. Shock strangled into flatness. Someone holding back more than they wanted to say.

“Elijah Ward speaking,” he said, though the man had called him.

“I know who you are,” the voice replied. “Just get here. It’s bad.”

The line went dead.

Elijah didn’t wake Eden—she was asleep on the couch, curled under her jacket, exhausted tears dried on her cheeks. He scribbled a note telling her he’d be back soon and slipped out.

The funeral home was only eight minutes away. His hands tightened on the steering wheel the entire drive.

When he arrived, two patrol cars were parked out front, lights off. As if the police didn’t want anyone to notice they were there.

But Elijah noticed something else.

The sheriff’s decal on the cars was fresh. Recently washed. Like they had prepared for whoever would be driving by.

He stepped out.

A deputy said nothing—just jerked his chin toward the back entrance.

Elijah walked past the flower beds and into the dim back hallway where the funeral director, Arthur Leland, kept his office.

The air smelled like lilies and sanitizer.

And something else.

Fear.

Arthur’s assistant, a nervous man in his thirties, stood pale as chalk near the stairs. His hands clutched his clipboard so tightly it bent.

“What happened?” Elijah asked.

The man swallowed. “He… he fell.”

Elijah stared at him. “Fell.”

“That’s what they’re saying,” the man whispered, eyes darting toward the patrol officers.

Elijah descended the narrow wooden staircase.

Arthur Leland lay at the bottom, neck turned at an impossible angle, eyes open, glasses shattered across the floor. A bouquet cart lay tipped over beside him, its wheels still spinning faintly as if someone had pushed it not long ago.

The sight hit Elijah like a punch to the chest.

Arthur, the man who had risked his livelihood—his life—to give Elijah access to doctored autopsy records.

The man who told him Landon’s “official” cause of death didn’t match the body he had prepared.

The man who had said, in a trembling whisper:

“Nothing is what it looks like in this town. Nothing.”

And now he was dead at the bottom of a basement staircase.

Elijah crouched beside him. His throat tightened.

A fall. A simple fall.

Except nothing about it looked simple.

Arthur’s hand was clenched around something.

Elijah pried his fingers open—slowly, carefully. Inside was a small scrap of paper, torn from something larger.

A single handwritten word on it:

“RUN.”

Elijah swallowed hard.

Behind him, a voice said, “Don’t touch that.”

He closed his fist around the scrap and stood.

Sheriff Tom Ward walked into the basement.

But this wasn’t the same Tom from the night before—the man shaking with fear, warning Elijah they were coming. This Tom had the sheriff’s mask firmly back in place. Stiff posture. Hard expression. Distance in his eyes.

“Elijah,” Tom said. A nod. Cold. Controlled. “What are you doing here?”

“Elijah lifted the paper slightly behind his leg, hiding it. “I got a call.”

“From who?”

“His assistant.”

Tom’s jaw flexed. “He shouldn’t have called you. This is a police matter.”

“Arthur was helping me,” Elijah said.

Tom’s eyes flicked toward the body, then back. “Arthur Leland was involved in official investigations more often than he should’ve been.”

“Elijah stepped forward. “You mean he told the truth.”

Tom didn’t blink. “I mean he crossed lines.”

“A lot of people seem to be dying lately,” Elijah said. “Father Kellin. Lila disappearing. Matthew missing. Autopsy records being altered. And now Arthur? All accidents? All coincidences?”

Tom’s face remained unreadable. “We’ll investigate.”

“You’ll bury it,” Elijah snapped.

Tom leaned in, his whisper sharp: “Stop. Pushing.”

Elijah met his gaze. “I won’t.”

The deputy at the top of the stairs cleared his throat, interrupting the tension.

Tom straightened, shifting back into the role of sheriff.

“Elijah,” he said, voice now official, rehearsed, distant, “Arthur Leland fell down the stairs. His shoes were slick. He was carrying a cart. That staircase is old and poorly lit. We’ll confirm with the coroner.”

Elijah held back a bitter laugh. “Which coroner? The one who works for the mayor’s cousin? Or the one who’s married to the judge’s niece?”

Tom’s jaw tightened. “Don’t do this.”

“You already know it was murder,” Elijah said quietly. “You knew it the moment you walked in.”

Tom didn’t respond.

The silence was louder than a scream.

Elijah scanned the room again. The scuff marks on the top stair. The angle of Arthur’s body. How clean the hallway was—so clean it felt staged.

“Where’s his phone?” Elijah asked.

Tom didn’t answer.

“Where’s his notebook? He always kept a notebook.”

Another pause.

“Elijah’s stomach dropped. “They already took it.”

Tom’s eyes flickered. Just enough for Elijah to know.

“I need you to leave,” Tom said softly.

“Not until you tell me what you know.”

Tom’s lips parted—just a fraction. Enough to form a word he didn’t speak.

Then he shut it down.

“Elijah,” Tom said again, voice tightening, “leave.”

Elijah stepped closer. “Tom. Listen to me. Arthur died because he helped me. Because he gave me evidence. Because he told me about the doctored reports. If you won’t admit what’s going on—”

Tom grabbed his arm and squeezed. Hard.

“Elijah froze.

“Listen carefully,” Tom said, voice barely audible. “There are things I can’t say. But you need to stop assuming you’re two steps ahead. You’re not. You’re barely breathing ahead.”

Elijah’s jaw clenched. “Then help me breathe.”

Tom’s grip loosened. He looked exhausted. Haunted. Desperate.

But he shook his head.

“I can’t,” he whispered. “They’re watching every move I make. Every conversation. Every report I file. If I step out of line again—”

Elijah waited.

Tom didn’t finish.

But Elijah understood.

Tom wouldn’t survive another misstep.

Elijah stepped away and looked down at Arthur one last time.

The honest man in a dishonest town.

The man who dared to pull back the curtain.

Now dead on the floor.

A fall. They said.

No.

A message.

“Goodbye,” Elijah murmured under his breath. “I’m sorry.”

He slipped the scrap of paper deeper into his pocket.

RUN.

As Elijah climbed the stairs, Tom didn’t follow.

The funeral home felt colder when Elijah stepped outside.

The morning sun was bright, almost mocking in its warmth, as if the world didn’t care that everything inside him was crumbling.

He looked at the stairwell window—saw Tom pacing in the basement, running a hand through his hair, shoulders collapsing under a weight he couldn’t speak of.

Tom wasn’t just conflicted.

He was trapped.

And Elijah was making the trap close faster.

Elijah got into his car.

He pulled out Arthur’s scrap of paper.

The handwriting was shaky, rushed, but unmistakably Arthur’s.

RUN.

Elijah whispered, “Where?”

Arthur couldn’t answer.

But Elijah knew what the warning meant:

Not to leave town.

Not to hide.

Not to save himself.

It meant run toward the truth.

Run before they destroy the next person who dares to speak.

He looked at the road ahead.

The sun rising.

The town watching.

The walls closing in.

Elijah gripped the wheel and drove.

Toward the next death.

The next secret.

The next betrayal.

Arthur Leland had died for telling the truth.

Elijah would not let that be the end of it.