Tracy’s POV

The funeral home smelled like lilies and furniture polish, a combination that would probably haunt me for the rest of my life. I sat in the front row between my uncle Marcus and my cousin Jennifer, staring at two closed caskets covered in white roses. Someone had told me white roses symbolized reverence and purity. I didn’t care what they symbolized. They just looked cold.

“Beautiful service,” someone murmured behind me. I’d heard that phrase approximately forty times in ...