Page 158 of Scatter the Bones

I cross the parking lot to the brick building that houses the cremation chamber, punch in the code, and open the door. I hurry to the stainless steel control panel, flip the protectivecover, and press the sequence to preheat the retort. The burner kicks on with a low whoosh, followed by a deeper rumble as the system roars to life. Heat pulses against my cheeks, and the air in the crematory thickens with the faint scent of scorched metal.

Hopefully things will be nice and toasty by the time the guys get here and this will be quick.

By the time I’m done, sweat slicks the side of my face and trails down my spine. I unzip my sweatshirt and tie it around my waist, leaving me in a black tank top, the fabric clinging to my skin.

I turn all but one of the lights off inside the building and make sure the outside lights are also off.

A low engine hum cuts through the stillness. I freeze, listening.

I crack the door and step outside.

Headlights sweep across the lot.

A black van creeps around the corner of the house.

I swipe damp hair off my forehead and force a small, steady smile as it slows to a crawl over the pavement. The driver backs the van close to the building, almost right into one of the tall bushy rows of lilacs that grow between the funeral home and my father’s property.

Unsure of what to do, I step into the crematorium and wait, leaving the door ajar. I don’t want to go into the house until I’m sure they have everything they need. Maybe they trust me enough now and won’t mind if I stick around?

Low, tense voices go back and forth outside.

A door creaks. Someone groans. A scuffle and a thud. A string of muttered curses. Muffled pleading.

My heart thunders but I stay still. Waiting.

“Ow! Fuck,” someone growls.

Is that Jigsaw?

I nudge the door open. Four hulking men, mostly in black clothing, stand in a loose circle, staring down at a heap on the ground. The back van doors are wide open, but no light shines out.

I open my door wide. The hinges squeak.

One of the men turns around. In the shadowy darkness, I make out Wrath’s dark blond beard. He lifts his chin in a silent hello, then turns and murmurs something too low for me to hear.

One of the dark figures breaks away.

Jigsaw.

He stares straight at me, an affectionate smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He crosses the short distance between us, walking slower than usual. His jaw’s tight, shoulders stiff, but he still slides his gloved hands over mine when he reaches me. They’re vaguely damp or sticky against my skin.

“Evening, little lady death,” he murmurs, voice warm despite the coldness of the occasion. He leans down and brushes a quick kiss over my cheek. “Thanks for doing this tonight,” he whispers against my ear.

The warmth of his kiss lingers on my skin. “Of course.”

Someone else breaks away from the circle, walking closer.

“Margot.” Even hushed, Rock’s commanding voice demands my attention. “Thanks for letting us borrow the facilities on short notice.” He casts a glance Jigsaw’s way. “I understand business has been brisk this week.”

He says it lightly, but something about the way his gaze lingers on Jigsaw gives a different feel—like he’s verifying information.

Did Jigsaw try to get out of coming here tonight by telling him we’ve been busy? Would he defy his club, thinking he’s protecting me?

“It has,” I answer. “But this was good timing. We finished our last service of the day, and nothing’s scheduled tomorrow. Dad’s still at the church and my cousin’s out.”

“That’s good. Thanks,” Wrath adds, turning toward us. Despite his size and Viking appearance, there’s something almost comforting in his presence.

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