Warren Bellamy was gone, but the mess he left behind remained.

We reached the iron gate of the cemetery, its hinges rusted and slick with rain.

I took the brass key from my pocket and unlocked the latch.

The gate groaned as I pushed it open.

Lydia pulled her hood lower over her forehead.

“The vault is at the back, under the weeping willow,” I said.

We walked past the headstones of my ancestors, their names worn smooth by decades of river wind.

The granite front of the vault looked black in the rain.

I inserted the key into the heavy iron padlock on the outer grate.

The lock turned with a dull click.

We stepped inside, out of the direct downpour, though the air inside was just as cold.

The smell of old stone and dry dust filled my nose.

I shone the flashlight along the rows of stone niches.

“There,” I said, pointing the beam at the third niche on the left.

A heavy bronze urn shaped like an oak leaf sat on the ledge.

Lydia stepped closer, her wet boots squeaking on the stone floor.