“Oh?” Mr. Evans feigned surprise. He leaned his swivel chair back. “Your aunt said she’d come and collect them this afternoon. Should I call and tell her not to?”

“Yes. Do that.”

“All right, I will do that. It shouldn’t be a problem. You had the right of first refusal after all. All children do.” His fingertips leaned into one another, forming a pyramid. Then darting forth, he withdrew a single-sheet pamphlet from his drawer and slid it across the desk to her—“On Anger.” The author was one Gregory H. Evans. “In case you’re wondering—yes, I wrote this myself. I write most of the guides we produce. Many people have told me that this one was especially helpful. I know you’re a woman of strong opinion and I will be curious to hear your feedback.”

“You want me to read this now?”

“No, no, take it with you. You can always tell me later. Grief lasts.” He studied her reaction and, when she expressed no ire, gave her a wink. Still nothing. “Now, let me go and fetch your beloved father.”

He brushed by her shoulder deliberately as he took his mincing steps out of the office. While he was gone, she studied the plaques and framed photographs on his walls. He was evidently a good friend to old women. There were multiple certificates in the mortuary sciences, a state of Iowa registration for the practice, and a Master of Fine Arts in Fiction Writing from Iowa City. On his desk, a plastic organizer overflowed with paper clips, rubber bands and Bic ballpoint pens with their caps gnawed into odd shapes. Scrawled on a Precious Moments memo pad in bubble letters were the words order formaldehyde!

Mr. Evans returned to the room with the jade-colored urn.

“Your aunt made a fine choice—this is genuine jadeite, from our Exquisite Treasures line. We listed the urn alone at eighteen thousand dollars.”

“It was my father’s money anyway.”

“I don’t doubt that. He was quite handy with the pocketbook. Or so I was told.”

Mary-Sue took the urn and got up to leave.

“Hang on, I’ll need you to sign this.” He put a stack of carbon copies in front of her and offered her one of his pens. “It proves that you collected the ashes and that they didn’t just vanish into thin air. Though that has been known to happen from time to time.”

She signed the documents without reading.

“Very trusting.”

“Very impatient.”

“And please don’t forget my pamphlet.” He folded the “On Anger” tract and placed it in her hand, grazing her skin meaningfully. “Let me know your thoughts. I know you can be brutally honest, but I’m a big boy. Really, I am.”

He walked her to the door. “When I phone your aunt, is there anything else you’d like for me to tell her?”