It hurt to see him like this. Bloodless. Cosmetics coated his skin, giving the illusion of life. His arms lay crossed over his chest, his eyes closed as if asleep. The mortician—make-up artist to the dead and not yet buried—had smoothed the lines of his face, but I knew the peaceful expression for a lie as untrue as the note I’d found beside his body.

I’m sorry.

For what? The question threatened to consume me. Had he cheated on me? Gambled away our savings? What horrible sin could have prompted this? What had tormented him so much that he had sacrificed his immortal soul? Why hadn’t he told me what was wrong?

“How could you do this to me?” I whispered to the corpse before slamming a wooden stake through his heart. The heat of the nascent flames dried my tears.

His eyes flew open and he lived long enough to gasp. “Why?”

“You tell me,” I told the ashes.