Chapter 12 - The Room Beneath the ChapelSt. Mark’s Chapel closed after the funeral disaster, but its doors still smelled of lilies and candle smoke when Detective Hale returned with a search team.
He did not believe Victor had chosen the chapel only for symbolism.
Men like Victor rarely did anything for one reason.
They searched the sanctuary first.
Then the office.
Then the preparation room where Sarah’s body had been dressed before the service.
A crime scene technician found blood under the rim of the casket where Sarah’s fingers had torn against the wood.
Another found adhesive residue beneath the casket lid.
“Was it sealed?” Brooks asked.
The funeral director, Peter Dorman, stood nearby sweating through his suit.
“No,” he said too fast. “Never sealed. Just closed.”
Hale looked at him.
Dorman swallowed.
“I mean, not permanently sealed.”
Brooks smiled without warmth. “That distinction usually matters only when someone expects the person inside to try getting out.”
Dorman’s knees seemed to weaken.
“I didn’t know she was alive.”
“Dr. Reeve says Victor paid you.”
“I thought it was for discretion.”
“Discretion about what?”
Dorman wiped his forehead.
“The rush. The closed viewing. Mrs. Whitmore’s mother-in-law insisted there be no embalming.”
Hale’s eyes sharpened.
“No embalming?”
Dorman nodded miserably. “They said religious preference.”
Brooks stepped closer. “Sarah Whitmore was Episcopalian.”
“I don’t ask questions when families pay for privacy.”
Hale stared at him. “You should start.”
A young officer called from the hallway.
“Detective!”
They found the basement door behind a storage shelf.
Old stone steps led beneath the chapel to a narrow room once used for records and funeral supplies.
But the dust had been disturbed.
Recent footprints crossed the floor.
In the corner sat a second casket.
Smaller.
White.
Hale felt something cold move through his chest.
Brooks whispered, “No.”
The casket was empty.
Inside, taped to the lid, was a photograph of Emma.
Under it, Victor had written:
A FAMILY SHOULD BE BURIED TOGETHER.
Hale turned away for one second, fighting the urge to smash something.
Then he saw the wall.
Names had been carved into the old wood.
Not many.
Four.
Thomas Whitmore.
Sarah Whitmore.
Emma Whitmore.
Claire Bennett.
Claire.
Hale called the hospital immediately.
No answer.
He called the officer outside Sarah’s room.
No answer.
At the hospital, Sarah was in physical therapy when the fire alarm started.
Nurses moved patients into the hallway. Security shouted instructions. Sprinklers hissed in one wing.
Emma clutched Sarah’s hand.
Claire appeared at the end of the hall. “This way! They said family exits through the east stairwell.”
Sarah stopped.
Something felt wrong.
The east stairwell had no police officer.
No nurses.
No alarms flashing.
Claire’s face was terrified.
Too terrified.
Sarah whispered, “Claire?”
Her sister’s eyes filled with tears.
“I’m sorry,” Claire mouthed.
Then a man stepped from behind her.
Victor.
He held a gun against Claire’s back.
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“Hello, Sarah,” he said softly. “It’s time to bring our daughter home.”
Emma screamed.
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