Ashgate

The cold room should have been empty. The crematory van had already run, the rental casket was latched, and Julian Cho had the chapel to himself until the florist tried the street door at dawn.Then a man was sitting on the steel table who was not on the slate.Theron Ash is a collector in a man's shape: pale, silver-cropped, too large for the coat he does not bother to close. The name he came for is alive in a bar on Water Street. The ledger gave him the slack hours until light, and he would rather not spend them alone. He offers a bargain Julian can take back with one word. Shut the door, or send him out onto the bluff.Julian shuts the door.What follows is a locked chapel, a glass wall on black water, and a rule they both repeat: stop, or the sound of gravel, and everything freezes. Mouths. Hands. The pew. The office couch. A shower that runs lukewarm while a county radio mutters weather and nothing else. Julian is twenty-nine and done pretending the nights are only work. Theron does not take what is not offered, and Julian keeps offering.The florist is early. The director wants the wreaths centered. The second key is on the hook by the sink.