You Americans, the receptionist had said.
I clenched my jaw. “What about her belongings?”
The man flipped another page. “They were released.”
“To whom?” I asked.
He paused.
“Someone listed as an authorized contact,” he said carefully.
“Her husband?” I asked. “Randy Kent?”
He shook his head. “No.”
My stomach dropped.
“Then who?”
“That information is not included here,” he said. “Only that belongings were collected.”
Collected.
By someone else.
“Was there a visitor?” I asked quietly. “Someone with her before she died?”
His eyes flicked up, sharp now. Assessing.
“There was someone present briefly,” he said. “The name was not recorded.”
Not recorded.
My hands trembled.
“So, you’re telling me,” I said slowly, “that my sister was conscious, that someone visited her, that her belongings were taken by someone who is not her husband—and you can’t tell me anything else?”
“That is correct.”
I stared at him, disbelief and grief tangling in my chest until I couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
“This is unacceptable,” I said, my voice breaking. “She’s not just a file. She’s my sister.”
He looked at me for a long moment, something like weariness flickering across his face.
“Madame,” he said, “death is administrative as much as it is personal. You will need to follow procedure.”
Procedure.
The word echoed in my head as he stood, clearly signaling the conversation was over.
“I can give you the address of the funeral service handling the cremation,” he added. “You may inquire about the ashes there. During business hours.”
“Tomorrow,” I whispered.
“Yes,” he said. “Tomorrow.”
He opened the door.
