“I tried to wake her up. I yelled her name. I called for help, but nobody comes to my neighborhood. People ignore calls from the street. I stayed with her until I thought she was stable. Then the police arrived hours later and said she was dead. They were wrong.”
Preston took one step, and another, until he was standing right in front of the boy.
—Why did you wait until today to say this?
Jace lowered his gaze.
“No one listens to a homeless kid. I tried to talk to the officers, but they brushed me off. When I found out the funeral was today, I knew I couldn’t let them bury her while she was still breathing.”
The words hit Preston like stones. For weeks he’d felt that something about the cause of death didn’t add up. That Talia had been taken too soon. Now that thread was coming undone.
“Open it,” Preston said quietly.
He lifted the coffin lid. Light flooded in, and Preston leaned forward. Expecting stillness. Expecting the terrible chill of death. Instead, he felt warmth beneath his fingertips. Warmth where none should remain.
“It’s lukewarm,” he whispered.
He placed a finger on her neck. There was a pulse. Weak, but undeniable.
