Chapter 2 - The Coffin ClosesThe service dragged on like an eternal purgatory of insincere eulogies and hollow organ music.
Rev. Thomas droned on about how Claire Whitmore was a beacon of light, a gentle soul taken too soon by the cruel winds of illness. Behind closed eyes, I mentally calculated the exact percentage of church donations Grant had quietly funneled into his own pocket last year through his real estate foundation. Beacon of light, my foot. I was a structural engineer who had designed the very real estate portfolio that made Grant a multi-millionaire before he ever inherited a dime from his father.
As the final hymn echoed through the vaulted ceilings of St. Jude’s, the pallbearers—four corporate lackeys Grant had hand-picked to look like loyal friends—stepped forward to lift the casket.
I felt the sudden, jarring tilt as the heavy mahogany box was hoisted onto their shoulders. The world tilted at a twelve-degree angle. I held my breath, locking every muscle in my core so I wouldn't sway or shift. If a single fold of my ivory silk dress rustled out of place, the illusion would shatter.
“Steady, boys,” Grant’s voice called out, smooth and commanding, carrying that faux-sorrowful cadence he had perfected for the occasion.
We processed down the central aisle. Through the narrow gap between the lid and the rim, I could see the sea of black-clad attendees standing respectfully as we passed. I caught sight of Mrs. Higgins, our elderly neighbor, wiping genuine tears from her cheeks with a lace handkerchief. My heart ached a little for her; she actually believed she was mourning me.
Then there was Jenna.
As the pallbearers carried my “body” past the front row, Jenna stepped smoothly into the procession, falling in right behind Grant and Tessa. Her footsteps clicked against the stone floor with rhythmic, military precision.
I could hear Tessa whispering to Grant as they walked toward the heavy oak exit doors.
“Do you think Brenner will have the probate papers ready by three? I want to make sure the wire transfer for the Hamptons down payment clears before the weekend banks close.”
Grant chuckled softly—a low, filthy sound of pure anticipation. “Relax, Tessa. The moment the death certificate is filed with the county clerk this afternoon, the estate automatically freezes my liabilities and unlocks my primary liquidity. The house, the accounts, the corporate shares—they’re all mine. Statewide, she didn't leave a single loophole.”
Oh, Grant, I thought, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning. You always did overestimate your ability to read the fine print.
We reached the back of the church, and the pallbearers slid the casket smoothly onto the hydraulic rolling trolley destined for the hearse. The cool autumn air hit my face for a fraction of a second as we crossed the threshold, smelling of wet asphalt, falling leaves, and the sweet promise of retribution.
They locked the outer doors of the hearse. The muffled sound of the engine turning over vibrated through the floorboards.
We were off to the cemetery.
Except, the hearse wasn't driving to the municipal graveyard off Route 9.
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Through the covert GPS tracker I had sewn into the heavy wool lining of the casket’s internal padding two nights ago, and monitored via a secure relay app on Jenna’s phone, I knew our exact route. We were heading south, toward the private industrial crematorium and transport bay owned by Brenner’s subsidiary logistics firm.
Step one of the resurrection was proceeding precisely on schedule.
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