Chapter 2 - Shadows in the Chapel
The metallic click of the door handle turning from the outside sounded like a gunshot in the hushed, incense-heavy air of the preparation room.
My heart slammed against my ribs with a violence that made my vision blur. In my arms, little Chloe whimpered, her tiny body trembling like a trapped bird against my chest. Her skin was fever-hot, damp with cold sweat, her breathing shallow and ragged from hours of being sealed in the dark, padded prison of that mahogany box.
“Grandma…” she breathed again, her voice a fragile rasp. “Hide me. Please.”
The heavy footsteps stopped right outside the heavy oak door. A deep, familiar voice rumbled through the wood—my son, Lucas.
“Is anyone in here?” Lucas called out, his tone carrying that smooth, practiced facade of public grief that he had worn like a tailored suit ever since the hospital had declared his six-year-old daughter dead from a rapid, mysterious bacterial infection. “The service is about to move to the gravesite. Everyone is looking for you, Mom.”
My mind raced at warp speed. If Lucas opened this door and saw me holding his daughter—the daughter he had deliberately drugged, sealed into a casket, and prepared to bury alive—there would be no negotiation. A man capable of burying his own child to cover up whatever dark secret she had stumbled upon wouldn't hesitate to silence his own mother.
My eyes scanned the cramped preparation room frantically. There were no windows. Only a narrow utility closet with a louvered door, filled with spare floral arrangements, folding chairs, and cleaning supplies.
“Hold onto my neck tight, sweetheart,” I whispered fiercely into Chloe’s ear, pressing her face against my shoulder so her hair and clothes wouldn't catch the light.
I darted across the linoleum floor just as the lock on the main door clicked and began to turn. With a silent prayer, I pulled the utility closet door open, slipped inside with Chloe in my arms, and pulled the louvered slats shut just as the heavy oak door swung open with a slow, ominous creak.
Through the narrow wooden slats of the closet door, I watched through the shadows.
Lucas stepped into the room. He was dressed in a pristine black designer suit, his hair neatly combed, his handkerchief clutched in his hand just so. But the grief on his face was a grotesque mask. As the door closed behind him, his posture instantly shifted. The slumped shoulders of a devastated father vanished. He stood tall, his jaw clenched, his eyes darting sharply around the room.
He walked over to the open casket. His fingers brushed against the white satin lining where Chloe had been trapped only moments before.
A cold, humorless smile touched his lips.
“Smart girl,” Lucas muttered to himself, his voice dripping with a chilling, predatory calm. “You stayed quiet. Just like Daddy told you.”
My blood turned to ice in my veins. He knew. He fucking knew she had woken up, or at least he suspected that the sedative he had given her might wear off too soon. He hadn't come to check on his daughter out of love; he had come to make sure the job was finished before the casket hit the dirt.
Lucas reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, heavy object—a stainless-steel locking latch mechanism that matched the hidden screws I had removed from the casket lining. He tossed it carelessly onto a side table, alongside a small amber vial with a faded prescription label.
“Just a few more hours,” Lucas whispered, staring down at the empty satin pillow. “And everything is mine.”
He turned on his heel, his expensive leather shoes clicking sharply against the floor, and strode out of the room, slamming the heavy oak door shut behind him. The lock clicked shut with a definitive, mechanical thud.
I waited a full two minutes, listening to his heavy footsteps fade down the carpeted hallway toward the main chapel. Only when the silence of the mortuary returned did I push open the utility closet door, letting out a ragged breath I felt like I’d been holding for a lifetime.
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Chloe looked up at me, her big, fearful brown eyes shining with unshed tears. “Is he gone, Grandma?”
“He’s gone, baby,” I whispered, tears finally breaking over my own eyelids as I kissed her forehead. “And I promise you on my life... he is never, ever touching you again.”
