Chapter 3
The bright, cinematic colors of the funeral parlor seemed to sharpen into terrifying clarity as violence erupted at the altar. Ryan Vance lunged across the final few feet of the aisle, his hands outstretched like claws, aiming directly for the smartphone in Sarah’s grip. His fair face was flushed a deep, violent crimson, entirely devoid of the sorrow a brother should feel on the day of a funeral.
"Give me the damn phone, Sarah!" Ryan bellowed, his American accent harsh and guttural.
Sarah twisted her body away, shielding Emma, but Ryan was faster. His fingers grazed her wrist.
Before he could pry the device from her hands, a blur of dark blue uniform intercepted him. A police officer, who had been stationed near the side entrance as a courtesy for the prominent Vance family, drove his shoulder hard into Ryan’s chest.
"Step back, sir! Right now!" the officer commanded, forcing Ryan backward until the young man stumbled and nearly fell over the front pew. The officer kept his hand resting firmly on his utility belt, creating a physical barrier between the aggressive brother and the terrified mother and child.
Margaret pointed wildly at Sarah, her pearl earrings shaking violently as her panic exploded into raw, unfiltered rage.
"She’s lying!" Margaret shrieked, her voice echoing shrilly off the stained glass. "She typed that message herself to cause a scene! Take that phone from her, Officer! She is trying to ruin my son's funeral!"
"Nobody is taking my phone," Sarah said, her voice shaking but defiant. She looked at the officer. "My husband supposedly died in a car fire three days ago. But I just received a text from his number, and a phone was just ringing inside that sealed casket."
The officer’s eyes widened. He looked from Sarah to the heavy mahogany box, then to the sweating, frantic faces of the Vance family.
"Is the funeral director here?" the officer called out loudly.
A nervous, balding man in a pristine black suit emerged from the side door, wiping his hands on a handkerchief. "I am here, Officer. But I must protest, this is highly irregular—"
"Open the lid," the officer ordered, his voice brooking no argument.
"You do not have a warrant!" Charles Vance shouted, his polished demeanor finally cracking. "This is private property! This is my son!"
"I have probable cause of a crime in progress, sir. Open it, or I will pry it open myself," the officer retorted, stepping closer to the bier.
The funeral director, trembling under the intense, bright lights, fumbled in his pocket for a small brass tool. He approached the coffin, his hands shaking violently as he inserted the tool into the hidden latches. With two loud, metallic clicks, the seals broke.
He slowly lifted the heavy mahogany lid, pushing it back on its hinges.
Emma clung tightly to Sarah’s leg, burying her face in the dark fabric of the mourning dress.
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Sarah braced herself to see the charred remains of her husband. Instead, a muffled, frantic grunting sound emerged from the satin interior.
Inside the coffin, bathed in the bright sunlight pouring from above, was an older man. He was bound tightly with heavy zip-ties, a thick strip of silver duct tape plastered across his mouth. He was alive, thrashing violently against the silk lining, his eyes wide with absolute, suffocating terror.
