“Yes, yes.” He nods, releasing her hand and threading his fingers together in front of him as he walks, expecting us to follow down a side hall. “The kinship laws become so murky in situations like this, but you’re his last connection through the hospital paperwork.”

Remi glances at me out of the corner of her eye, and I squeeze the back of her neck. She didn’t have to accept the piece of shit’s remains, but if she refused, the funeral director said they’d go to the police department.

But my woman isn’t letting Daniel Kane rest in peace.

I fucking love it.

We reach a staircase, and down he goes, but as we reach the bottom, he stops and turns by a closed door. His face dips closer to us, voice lower even though it appears no one else is here. “The entire affair has been odd between you and me. First the estate not having money for a funeral and burial, and then the department held a service, even though I couldn’t release the remains. Then,” he almost whispers, the gossip heating up, “he’d defaulted on the payments to the cemetery, and they reclaimed his plot.”

As he rotates, Remi presses her lips together. The man twists the knob and steps into the room, and her lips turn up as she drags me along by the front of my coat.

At the next door, he indicates for us to wait. He’s only gone for a second before reappearing with a gray plastic box, a sticker on top identifying the contents.

Mr. Stenon hands Remi the box, but I intercept it. She gives me an appreciative look.

“I’m sorry for the box,” the man says with an expression to match the apology. “We don’t have unclaimed remains often, but when we do, I like to provide an urn for dignity’s sake. With you coming, I didn’t order one for the chief.”

“Not at all a problem.” Remi tacks on a smile. “I’m glad you didn’t spend the money.”

Mr. Stenon nods, but when we turn to leave, he stops us. “Uh-uh.” The quirky man holds up a finger before stepping back into the room. “I didn’t think of it until after we spoke,” he calls out, voice a little muffled. “But I meant to find you after you graduated. I wasn’t sure when you’d be of age, so I was playing it safe. Then you were gone before I got a chance to…”

Remi’s brows slant in as he trails off, and then he steps out with a white urn. The design is kintsugi-inspired, lines of gold meant to resemble filled cracks. I know right then, setting my hand on her shoulder, and she reaches up to grasp it, squeezes.

“Your dad’s been with me a long time,” he says, gently lifting it toward her.