“What’s going on, Evangeline?” he whispered once we were alone.
“That’s her,” I said urgently. “The scammer Margaret told us about. I’m sure of it.”
“What? The one who broke her son’s heart and stole everything?” Nathan frowned and placed his hands on his hips. “Are you positive? It could just be someone who looks like her.”
Part 2: The Breath Within the Dark
onJune 2, 2026
Part 2: The Breath Within the Dark
The two crematorium workers froze, their hands hovering over the heavy iron lever that would have tipped Clara’s casket into the white-hot inferno. The roar of the furnace suddenly felt deafening, a hungry beast denied its meal.
“Daniel, this is psychological delusion,” Dr. Crane stammered, stepping forward. His fingers were trembling so violently he had to shove them into the pockets of his white lab coat. “Post-mortem spasms. It is a documented medical phenomenon. The buildup of gases in a pregnant corpse can cause… muscular contractions. It’s a trick of the light and biology. Nothing more.”
“A trick?” I whispered, my eyes never leaving Clara’s stomach.
Under the harsh fluorescent lights of the chapel, the fabric of her white maternity dress rippled again. This wasn’t a random spasm. It was rhythmic. Deliberate.
Like a hand pushing from the inside, trying to find a way out.
“Shut the coffin!” Helena Vale roared, dropping her facade of the grieving, dignified matriarch. Her voice hit a pitch that made the glass light fixtures vibrate. “Daniel, you are desecrating my daughter’s body! Marcus, remove him from this room immediately!”
Marcus moved with the predatory grace of a man who had never been told no in his entire life. He grabbed my shoulder, his grip like a steel vice, digging into my cheap, rented suit. “You heard my mother, grease monkey. The show is over. You’re going to walk out of here, or I’m going to ensure you spend the rest of your life in a psychiatric ward. We own the judges in this county. Don’t tempt me.”
I didn’t flinch. I didn’t look at him. I simply reached into my jacket pocket one more time. I didn’t pull out another piece of paper.
I pulled out a heavy, black tactical flashlight—a tool from my garage. And before Marcus could drag me away, I slammed the heavy metallic base of the flashlight directly onto his kneecap.
Crack.
Marcus screamed, collapsing to the tiled floor, clutching his leg as curses poured from his mouth. Helena gasped, backing away into the shadows of the chapel, her face twisted in absolute fury.
“Security!” she shrieked. “Call the police!”
“Call them,” I said, my voice dead and cold. “Let’s have the police, the media, and the state coroner look at this ‘post-mortem spasm’ together.”
I stepped back to the edge of the open casket. I ignored the agonizing groans of my brother-in-law on the floor. I ignored Dr. Crane, who looked ready to faint. I leaned over Clara.
Her skin was ice-cold to the touch, painted with the grotesque, thick makeup the funeral home used to hide the pallor of death. But when I pressed my ear directly against her chest, I didn’t hear a heartbeat. Dr. Crane wasn’t entirely lying about that. Her heart was silent.
But then, I felt it. A faint, hot puff of air against my cheek.
She wasn’t breathing through her nose. Her lips were parted ju
