The medical examiner stopped the cremation with a single phone call an hour after I made mine. Weston had rushed it precisely because a body tells the truth that paperwork hides, and the autopsy he never wanted found what the death certificate never mentioned.
Marguerite’s heart had not simply failed. Her bloodwork showed a medication she had never been prescribed layered underneath the one she had, in a combination that stops a heart and reads, to a coroner who is not looking closely, like a natural event. Weston had counted on nobody looking closely. He had not counted on the recorder in her purse, and he had not counted on me.
