Beneath Her Spotless Tile Floor

Summary

Ever since my mother-in-law died in that car crash, my wife spent a full hour in the master bathroom every single day.

She told me it was chronic constipation. I believed her.

Until this afternoon, when my younger sister Leah—who works as a mortuary technician at the county coroner’s office—came over to hang out with our daughter.

She stepped into the bathroom to wash her hands. Less than a minute later, she bolted into the living room, her face drained of all color, voice frantic:

"Call the police, David! Call nine-one-one right now!"