I remembered hearing Sabine whisper something.
After that—
Nothing.
Until the coffin.
Footsteps approached.
I forced my breathing to remain shallow.
Through the opening, I saw my mother, Deborah, standing beside Preston.
Her face looked gray with grief.
“Don’t even bury her yet,” she said, “and you’re already giving away her things.”
Preston sighed.
“Deborah, Renee told me more than once that if anything happened to her, she wanted Sabine to have this.”
His hand entered my narrow field of vision.
Something gold hung from his fingers.
My necklace.
The necklace my grandmother had given me when I turned fifteen.
I had worn it nearly every day since.
My mother stared at him.
“She never took that off.”
“That’s why she wouldn’t want it sitting in a box.”
Preston turned.
Sabine stood near the window.
My sister was wearing black.
Her mascara had been carefully smudged.
Not ruined.
Smudged.
As if she had practiced crying in a mirror.
Preston stepped behind her.
I watched my husband fasten my necklace around my sister’s throat.
Something hotter than fear moved through me.
Rage.
Sabine touched the pendant nervously.
“What if someone asks?”
Preston lowered his voice.
“No one is going to ask anything.
The death certificate is already filed.”
My blood turned cold.
“The insurance company?”
Sabine whispered.
“As soon as I submit the certificate, the five hundred thousand gets processed.”
Five hundred thousand dollars.
I remembered the policy.
Preston had insisted on increasing our life insurance eight months earlier.
“Responsible married people plan,” he had said.
I had signed without reading every page.
Stupid.
Trusting.
Married.
Sabine glanced toward the coffin.
“What about the house?”
“Once probate recognizes me as surviving spouse, we move fast.”
My breath caught.
Then Sabine said the sentence that killed the last part of me that still wanted to believe there had been some terrible misunderstanding.
“I was afraid she would notice the taste yesterday.”
Preston gave a small laugh.
“I told you how much to put in.”
My mind screamed.
My body did not.
Sabine had drugged me.
Preston had known.
They had arranged a death certificate.
They had dressed me.
They had put me inside a coffin.
And if no one discovered the truth before afternoon—
They were going to bury me.
I moved my finger again.
Harder.
Nothing else responded.
Voices swelled around the room.
My aunts prayed.
A neighbor asked when the procession would leave for Fernhaven Cemetery.
Someone said eleven thirty.
I had no idea what time it was.
I had no idea how long I had.
Then I heard the slap of small shoes against the hardwood floor.
A child approached the coffin.
Sabine’s seven-year-old son, Julian, appeared through the narrow crack.
He was holding a chocolate cookie.
Crumbs covered his black sweater.
He leaned closer.
Children look at the dead differently from adults.
Adults are frightened of seeing too much.
Children want to understand.
Julian stared at my face.
I forced every ounce of strength into my eyelids.
Once.
I blinked.
Julian froze.
I blinked again.
His cookie fell from his hand.
“Mom?”
Sabine turned.
Julian pointed toward me.
“Aunt Renee is looking at me.”
Silence.
Real silence.
Not funeral silence.
Fear.
Sabine’s face drained white.
Preston turned so quickly that his shoulder struck a vase.
My mother stared toward the coffin.
“What did you say?” she asked.
Julian stepped backward.
“She opened her eyes.”
Sabine rushed toward him.
“No, sweetheart.
Dead people sometimes look like they’re watching you.
It’s just—”
“She blinked.”
Preston moved toward the coffin.
Every nerve in my body screamed at me not to move.
He stopped beside me.
His fingers settled on the lid.
For one terrible second I thought he was going to open it.
Instead, he pushed it down.
The line of light narrowed.
My world became almost completely black.
“She’s dead,” Preston said.
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
Julian began crying.
“I saw her.”
Sabine pulled him away.
“Enough.”
Then my mother said quietly, “I want to say goodbye to my daughter alone.”
Preston hesitated.
“I don’t think—”
“I said alone.”
There was something in Deborah Mercer’s voice that had frightened people for my entire childhood.
Even Preston obeyed it.
Chairs scraped.
Footsteps retreated.
A door closed.
For several seconds, nothing happened.
Then the coffin lid rose.
Light hit my face.
My mother stood above me.
Her eyes were red.
Her lips trembled.
“Renee?”
I tried to answer.
Only air came out.
She leaned closer.
I moved my finger.
Her hand flew to her mouth.
“Oh, God.”
I blinked.
She touched my cheek.
Her fingers jerked back.
Warm.
I was warm.
She pressed two fingertips beneath my jaw.
I saw the instant she felt the pulse.
My mother’s entire body shook.
But instead of screaming—
She leaned down as if kissing my forehead.
Her lips touched my ear.
And she whispered:
“Do not move.
Do not let them know.
I’m getting you out.”
For the first time since waking, I felt something stronger than terror.
Hope.
My mother lowered the lid again.
Then, standing over the coffin containing her living daughter, she began to scream.
Not for help.
Not yet.
She screamed the way grieving mothers are expected to scream.
“My baby!”
The door burst open.
Relatives rushed inside.
Deborah collapsed dramatically against my Aunt Corinne.
Someone called for water.
Someone else shouted for Preston.
And through the noise, I heard my mother say exactly what she needed to say.
“Her makeup is wrong.
She looks gray.
