Hawk demanded to see her.
The officers explained that viewing the body would not be advisable.
He demanded dental records, medical confirmation, and independent testing. The authorities told him those procedures were unnecessary because the evidence was considered sufficient.
Everything moved too quickly.
The investigation closed. A death certificate appeared. The funeral home recommended a sealed casket, and people began speaking about Emily in the past tense before Hawk had accepted that she was gone.
During the funeral, he stood rigid while the coffin was lowered into the ground. Friends from his motorcycle club, the Iron Saints, surrounded him in respectful silence. Some had known Emily since she was a toddler wearing a helmet too large for her head and begging for rides around the garage parking lot.
Hawk did not cry.
He stared at the casket and felt something cold beneath the grief.
The story did not feel right.
Emily was a careful driver. No witness had seen the vehicle leave the road. The fire had supposedly destroyed nearly everything, yet her identification remained conveniently intact.
Still, grief was heavier than suspicion.
For the next two weeks, Hawk returned to the cemetery every evening. He sat beside the grave and spoke to Emily as though she could hear him beneath the earth.
He told her he was sorry for every argument.
He apologized for the nights he came home late, the birthdays interrupted by emergencies at the garage, and the times his protective nature made her feel trapped. He remembered teaching her to ride a bicycle and watching her graduate from high school.
On the evening Leo approached him, Hawk had been telling Emily about the first time she rode on the back of his motorcycle.