Marisol stood up, smoothing her skirt, stepping toward the double oak doors that led to the balcony overlooking the receiving hall:
“It’s probably the florist from Bull Street. They were supposed to deliver the white calla lilies for the Senator’s—”
Marisol stopped.
Her voice didn’t simply trail off; it died in her throat with that sudden, violent, spastic gasp of a bird whose neck has just been snapped by a hydraulic vice:
*squeeeeeak.*
“Marisol?” Thad asked, stepping around his desk: “What is it?”
Marisol didn’t turn around. She couldn’t turn around.
Her fingers clawed at the polished brass balustrade of the balcony, her knuckles whitening until the skin threatened to split.
Thad stepped to her side, looking down over the railing into the two-story receiving rotunda:
And his skeleton turned to dry, pulverized chalk.
CHAPTER 3: THE TRANSIT AT THE CATACOMB
Standing in the center of the funeral home’s grand receiving rotunda…
