“Compassion. Empathy. Patience. Yes, one piece of my job involves preparing a body for burial, a process that has required years of technical training, but also, to be honest, art. Good embalmers have opinions on the percentage of formaldehyde, as well as the most realistic pancake makeup. But we’re not working in abstract. Our goal is to take something sad, overwhelming and often frightening for a family, and make it cathartic. Every day, I deal with people at their most vulnerable. Some are prone to tears, but others are prone to rage. My job is to take each of these people by the hand and lead them gently through the beginning of their grieving process. Using a great deal of compassion, empathy and patience. Now, my comfort level with dead bodies aside, do I sound like a killer to you?”

D.D. flushed again. “No.”

“Thank you.”

“But—”

Daniel Coakley’s eyebrows rose. For the first time, the funeral director appeared not only surprised, but as close as he probably got to annoyed. “But what?”

“The traits you described. Those are what it takes to be a good funeral director. Maybe I’m looking for a bad one.”

Coakley frowned at her. “Or,” he said abruptly, “a failed one. I can’t say it happens often, but every now and then I’ve had an apprentice who clearly lacked the . . . interpersonal skills necessary for this job.”

“What did you do?”

“Terminated the arrangement.”

“Would you have records?”

“Please. I can only think of one such person, and last I knew, she’d changed to culinary school and was doing quite well. Given the scope of your investigation, I’d think you’d want to cast a wider net than going from funeral home to funeral home.”

“What do you suggest?”

“The mortuary schools. There are two in Boston. See if they’d be willing to share the names of the students who failed. I could ask around as well. We’re a close-knit industry. If there’s a particular name, or what do you call it—a person of interest—you’d like to learn more about, I could probably make some calls.”

“Thank you.”

“We are not a bunch of ghouls,” Coakley said quietly, as D.D. rose to standing.

“I didn’t mean to imply that.”

“But from time to time, we do attract those with ghoulish sensibilities.”

“Story of my life,” D.D. assured him.

Coakley smiled his faint smile, then quietly, but firmly, escorted her out the door.

Chapter 11

IN OUR ENTIRE TIME TOGETHER, my adoptive father and I had only one major argument: the day he’d discovered my sister’s letters.

“Don’t be an idiot!” he’d roared at me, clutching the stack of barely legible notes. “You’ve got nothing to gain from this and everything to lose.”

“She’s my sister.”