“No.”
Then Harold stopped.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“Someone called the funeral home yesterday.”
Dad’s face changed.
Harold had sold the business years earlier, but the new owner still occasionally called him when older families requested him specifically.
“What did they want?”
“They asked general questions about prepaid arrangements.”
“Whose?”
Harold hesitated.
“Yours.”
The kitchen suddenly felt colder.
Dad’s prepaid funeral contract was real.
He had arranged it years earlier after his second heart scare because, as he put it, he did not want his daughters arguing over caskets while he was unavailable to referee.
Vanessa knew that.
So did I.
But only one of us had apparently started checking on it before he died.
“Who called?” Dad asked.
“They didn’t give a name. Office manager said it was a woman asking what paperwork would be required if the policyholder died at home.”
Dad’s jaw tightened.
“What time?”
“Yesterday afternoon.”
I looked at Dad.
