I handle hundreds of death certificates every month. I’ve never seen one this fake. With red-rimmed eyes, Chloe Bennett handed the piece of paper to Dr. Liam Sterling. "Dr. Sterling, before my mom passed... her only wish was to see me marry you." She was sobbing, her body trembling, clutching a handwritten letter in her other hand. Liam took it, his brows furrowing in deep concern. I stood right behind him, my gaze landing on that death certificate. Thirty seconds. That was all I needed. The immediate cause of death was listed simply as "Sudden Cardiac Arrest," with no underlying conditions noted beneath it. The certifying physician's signature was entirely too perfect—neat block letters, as if it had been carefully traced over a template. The date of death: three months ago. I’ve worked as a mortician at the city funeral home for six years. I remember every single body that passed through my hands during that specific week three months ago. She wasn't one of them. Free Chapters Chapter 1 I handle hundreds of death certificates every month. I’ve never seen one this fake. With red-rimmed eyes, Chloe Bennett handed the piece of paper to Dr. Liam Sterling. "Dr. Sterling, before my mom passed... her only wish was to see me marry you." She was sobbing, her body trembling, clutching a handwritten letter in her other hand. Liam took it, his brows furrowing in deep concern. I stood right behind him, my gaze landing on that death certificate. Thirty seconds. That was all I needed. The immediate cause of death was listed simply as "Sudden Cardiac Arrest," with no underlying conditions noted beneath it. The certifying physician's signature was entirely too perfect—neat block letters, as if it had been carefully traced over a template. The date of death: three months ago. I’ve worked as a mortician at the city funeral home for six years. I remember every single body that passed through my hands during that specific week three months ago. She wasn't one of them. 01 Liam read through the handwritten final letter three times. The paper was yellowed, the handwriting shaky and uneven. It was signed "Sarah Bennett" at the bottom, complete with a messy smudge of an ink thumbprint. "Chloe, your mom... when exactly did she pass?" Liam asked softly. Chloe covered her face. "Three months ago. Sudden heart attack. The paramedics couldn't bring her back." "Her last few days, she just kept saying your name over and over." "Said you were the best doctor she’d ever met, the kindest man." Liam was silent for a long time. He turned to look at me, his eyes slightly misted over. "Harper, Chloe is..." "I saw." My voice was flat. Liam pulled me into the hallway, lowering his voice. "How do you think we should help her?" "Help her with what?" "Her mom just died. She's alone in this city, and you know she doesn't have any other family here." "I'm asking you how you see that death certificate," I said coldly. Liam paused, confused. "What do you mean?" "The causal chain is incomplete," I said. "According to CDC guidelines, 'Sudden Cardiac Arrest' is a mechanism of death, not a cause. You have to note the underlying disease—whether it was coronary artery disease, cardiomyopathy, or arrhythmia. A real doctor wouldn't just write three words and call it a day." "You’re a... mortician. You actually understand that side of medicine?" That didn't come from Liam. Chloe had somehow followed us out, standing at the corner of the hallway, tears still clinging to her lashes. But the way she was looking at me now was very different from how she looked when she was crying seconds ago. "Ms. Avery, my mom passed away at the county hospital back in my hometown." "A small-town clinic might not have the same strict standards as the big city hospitals you’re used to." Liam nodded immediately. "Right. Rural hospitals do sometimes have inconsistencies in their paperwork. Harper, don't be so rigid." I looked at him. He didn't even know that the format for the United States Standard Certificate of Death is mandated nationwide. Even in small-town hospitals. "And what about the certifying doctor's signature?" "What about the signature?" "It’s too neat," I said. "I’ve seen thousands of doctors' signatures. Not one of them uses perfect block letters." Chloe's jaw tightened for a fraction of a second. It was a tiny flinch, but I saw it. "Ms. Avery, do you really think every doctor in the world is exactly like the ones you deal with at the funeral home?" She wiped her tears, her voice trembling with aggrieved insult. "My mother just died, and you’re here questioning her death certificate... Do you have any idea what this means to me?" Liam’s expression shifted. Not toward Chloe. Toward me. "Harper, the girl just lost her mother. Is this really necessary?" "You deal with dead bodies every day. Have you become completely numb to this?" I tightened my grip on my purse strap. Occupational hazard. Numb. Cold-blooded. It wasn't the first time I’d heard it. "I just think there are inconsistencies." "What inconsistencies?" Liam’s tone carried a hint of impatience. "A grieving girl brings a final letter from her mother, looking for some support from a colleague, and you immediately jump on her paperwork?" "If your mom had just passed, and someone treated you like this, how would you feel?" Right on cue, Chloe let out a few more silent tears. Liam gently patted her shoulder. "Chloe, don't listen to her. It’s just her job talking. She didn't mean anything by it." I stood in the hallway, leaning against the wall. The harsh fluorescent lights seemed exceptionally bright. The way he patted her shoulder was so natural. Natural as if he had practiced it many times. 02 When we got home that night, Liam did something unprecedented: he didn't wash his hands first. The very first thing he always did when he came home from the hospital was wash his hands. Three scrubs with soap, one full minute under running water. A six-year habit from being a surgical resident, ironclad. But that day, he sat directly on the sofa, staring at his phone screen. "Chloe posted a photo of her mom in the department group chat." He handed me the phone. A portrait of an older woman, taken in a backyard somewhere in the suburbs. She was wearing a thick flannel jacket, smiling warmly. Under the photo, Chloe had written: "Mom, I’m going to work hard to live a good life. Don't worry about me." The group chat exploded. Colleagues left messages of consolation, sending virtual hugs and typing "Rest in Peace" and "So sorry for your loss." "See," Liam said. "She really is heartbroken." I didn't respond. I was looking at the background of the photo. There was a pumpkin vine in the yard, and hanging from it were tiny, unripe green pumpkins. Green pumpkins. She claimed her mother passed three months ago. That would be September. Pumpkins are fully orange and ready for harvest in September. Green, unripe pumpkins belong to the peak of summer—July or August. Unless that photo wasn't taken in September. Unless that photo was taken when her mother was still very much alive in the middle of summer. "Liam." "Yeah?" "There are unripe green pumpkins in that photo." "...And your point?" "Three months ago was September." He looked at me for several seconds. "Harper, can you please stop analyzing living people like you're performing an autopsy?" "Maybe it was taken earlier in the year? Maybe it's a weirdly late-blooming vine?" "Do you really have to pick a grieving girl apart? What are you trying to gain from this?" He stood up and walked into the bathroom. I heard the harsh spray of the shower start. I sat on the sofa, zooming in on the photo. The growing season for pumpkins is undeniable. The latest this "final photo" could have been taken was August. But Chloe insisted her mom died in September. When this "memorial photo" was taken, her mom was doing just fine. I didn't bring this up to Liam again. Some words are a warning when said once. When said twice, they are nagging. When said three times, they become an unreasonable persecution complex. 03 Over the next week, the atmosphere in the department shifted. Chloe’s "tragedy" had spread throughout the entire hospital wing. Everyone knew that Nurse Bennett’s mother had left a final wish for her daughter to marry Dr. Sterling. "It’s so incredibly sad, like a movie." "Dr. Sterling is such a good guy, always supporting Nurse Bennett." "Doesn't Dr. Sterling have a girlfriend? The one who... works at the funeral home?" The person who said that last part lowered their voice significantly. But no matter how low the voice was, the disgust in the pause couldn't be hidden. On Wednesday at lunch, I went to the hospital cafeteria to find Liam for lunch. He wasn't there. I called his phone. It rang six times before he picked up. "Where are you?" "Uh... in the cafeteria, with some colleagues." The background noise was chaotic, with the sound of clattering trays and women's laughter. "I’m in the cafeteria too. I don't see you." The other end went silent for two seconds. "Sorry, I’m actually grabbing a bite at the deli down the street. Chloe... she hasn't been able to eat anything, so I wanted to get her something decent." The cafeteria had everything the deli had. "Liam, directly telling the truth isn't that hard." I hung up. My fingers were ice cold. Not because he was eating lunch with Chloe Bennett. But because he had lied. As a surgeon, he had dissected countless grand lies on the operating table—patients who swore they hadn't been drinking but had a BAC over the limit, family members who denied any allergies but had irregular liver enzymes. He knew better than anyone the cost of a lie. And yet, he lied anyway. For a "colleague who just lost her mother." At 2:00 PM, Chloe Bennett sent me a text. "Ms. Avery, thank you for your understanding. Dr. Sterling is just showing collegial concern. Please don't overthink it." Followed by a smiley face emoji. I took a screenshot of that message. Not because I was angry. But because that message revealed one thing—Liam had told her about my dissatisfaction. He chose to explain himself to her, rather than apologize to me. When we got home that night, Liam brought a bouquet of white chrysanthemums. "Chloe said she wanted to visit her mother’s grave. I promised I’d drive her back to her hometown this weekend." "Where’s she from?" "Oakhaven. A small town a few hours north." I put down my fork. "Which funeral home handled her mother's cremation?" "Harper!" Liam slammed his fork down onto the table. "Her mother has already been cremated, and you’re still pushing to know where?" "Do you have an ounce of empathy in you?" "Are you so cold from dealing with dead bodies all day that you're like this to living people, too?" His voice was loud. So loud that the water droplets on the window panes seemed to shudder. I didn't argue back. It wasn't that I didn't want to. It was that I suddenly felt very, very tired. I’ve been in this industry for six years. In the first year, no one at friend gatherings wanted to sit next to me. In the second year, my blind dates turned around the second they heard "funeral home." In the third year, my landlord raised the rent after finding out my profession. Liam Sterling appeared in the fourth year. He said he didn't care. He said that a doctor and a mortician are just two ends of the same life cycle. He made it sound so beautiful. So beautiful that I believed him for three years. Until today. I cleared the dishes into the sink and turned on the faucet. The sound of the rushing water drowned everything else out. 04 Saturday morning at 6:00 AM, Liam left the apartment. He said he was picking Chloe up, and they were going to drive up to Oakhaven together. "I'll go with her to visit the grave, and we'll be back by tonight." When he left, I was on the balcony watering my plants. A potted asparagus fern I’d kept alive for two years, its leaves a vibrant, glossy green. The sound of the front door closing was very soft. As soft as his current attitude toward our relationship. At 10:00 AM, I made a phone call to my mentor, Brenda. Brenda had been in the business eight years longer than me. She now worked at the State Department of Vital Statistics, overseeing the state's Electronic Death Registration System (EDRS). "Brenda, can you run a name for me?" "Who?" "Sarah Bennett. Resident of Oakhaven County. I don't have her Social Security Number. Date of death would be roughly three months ago, around September." "Why? Suspect foul play?" "Suspect she's not dead." Brenda paused, then let out a sharp laugh. "Alright. Give me a minute." Forty minutes later, Brenda called back. "Checked it. There isn't a single death certificate registered for a Sarah Bennett in the entire state system for the last six months." "None?" "None. No death registration, no transport logs, no cremation permits, and no burial transit permits." "I even checked the Oakhaven County Coroner's logs specifically. They handled 37 bodies in September. Sarah Bennett wasn't one of them." My hand holding the phone was completely steady. But my heart skipped a beat. "Brenda, can you check one more thing for me?" "Her Social Security benefits status." "I can't pull that on my end, you'll have to figure that out yourself." "But there's a foolproof way to know—Social Security retirement benefits are linked directly to their bank. When someone dies, the family or the funeral director reports it to the SSA to stop the payments." "If her retirement checks are still being disbursed..." "It means the Social Security Administration never received a death certificate." "It means that as far as the federal government is concerned, this woman is still alive." I thanked her and hung up the phone. The sun outside the window was incredibly bright. The shadows of the fern leaves fell across the hardwood floor in fine, delicate lines. I brewed a cup of tea, sat down at my desk, and opened the funeral director's portal for the SSA's Death Master File. Some things didn't require Liam to believe me. I could verify them myself.
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