Nathaniel’s knees buckled. He sank to the ground, his palms pressing into the dirt as though he could steady the earth beneath him. “No,” he rasped. “No, I won’t accept this. This isn’t her.”
The officer hesitated, then handed him a document. “We ran fingerprints on the recovered items. They matched Eleanor Carrington.”
Nathaniel’s head lowered. For the first time in years, the world felt like it had dropped out from under him. His heartbeat was a dull, punishing drum in his ears.
He didn’t notice the murmurs of the officers nearby. He didn’t see the way Delilah’s car rolled up in the distance.
He just stood there, staring at the ashes in the metal tray, his expression unreadable—but his grip on the necklace so tight it left angry red marks in his palm.
“Eleanor, please…” he muttered. “Tell me this is just a joke.”
The morgue was silent except for the faint hum of the fluorescent lights above, their cold glow reflecting off the stainless-steel surfaces. The air was sharp with antiseptic and something heavier—finality.
Nathaniel, still pretending to be Harold, stood rooted to the spot, staring at the small metal tray beside the gurney.