Chapter 3 - The Dead Man’s Ride
The transition from the cool, quiet halls of the chapel to the damp, roaring engine bay of the funeral hearse felt like descending into the ninth circle of hell.
The casket slid into the rear compartment with a metallic scrape that vibrated straight through the floorboards and into my spine. The heavy rubber rollers locked into place with a definitive click, securing the box against the chassis.
Up in the front cab, Olivia’s voice cut through the hum of the heater.
“Are you following us in your car, Mason?”
“Yes,” Mason’s voice came faintly through the partition. “I’ll stay right behind the hearse all the way to the municipal crematory on 4th Street. Once the paperwork is processed, we’ll meet in the viewing room.”
“Good,” Olivia said. Her voice sounded sharper now, stripped of the trembling cadence she had used in front of the mourners. “I want this finished, Mason. Every day that money sits in the frozen corporate accounts is another day someone might start asking questions about Ethan’s sudden resignation from the board.”
“Nobody is going to ask questions, Liv,” Mason scoffed lightly. “The board thinks he’s resting at the lake house for exhaustion. By tomorrow morning, his signature will be transferred via the pre-signed power of attorney we filed last month, and the liquidation will begin.”
Pre-signed power of attorney.
The memory hit me like a physical blow. Three weeks ago, during one of my dizzy spells—spells deliberately induced by small doses of the poison administered in my nightly tea—Mason had convinced me to sign a stack of routine administrative documents for the upcoming charity gala and real estate restructuring. He had slid the power of attorney form right into the middle of the stack, pointing to the line where my initials were required, reassuring me with that calm, professional smile.
I had trusted him. I had paid for his private clinic's equipment upgrades. I had invited him to dinner at our home.
And he had used my friendship to write my death warrant.
The hearse lurched forward, bumping over a pothole in the driveway before accelerating smoothly onto the highway. The rhythmic vibration of the tires on the asphalt sent a steady, sickening tremor through the interior of the casket.
Every time the vehicle took a sharp turn, my shoulder slid against the satin lining. The air inside the box was beginning to thin. The oxygen was running low, replaced rapidly by the carbon dioxide exhaled from my own lungs. A dull, throbbing ache began to blossom behind my temples, warning of the suffocation slowly creeping in.
Think, Ethan. Think.
If my body wouldn't obey, I had to find another way. What did I have? What was inside the casket with me?
My fingers brushed against the smooth fabric of my custom-tailored burial suit. The jacket was stiff wool. The shirt was crisp cotton. In my breast pocket... wait.
Before leaving the house that morning, Olivia had insisted on dressing me herself, claiming it was her final act of devotion. She had dressed me in my finest gray three-piece suit.
And in the left interior pocket of that jacket rested my heavy platinum signet ring—a family heirloom passed down from my grandfather, featuring a thick, raised crest of solid metal. It was heavy. It was bulky.
If I could just shift my weight enough to slide my hand across my chest... if I could get my paralyzed fingers to dip into that pocket...
I concentrated every fiber of my being on my left arm.
Move. Move!
For five agonizing minutes, nothing happened. The arm remained pinned to my side, heavy as a block of granite. My breathing grew shallower, the air turning hot and stale inside the enclosed space. Sweat beaded heavily across my forehead, stinging my eyes, but I couldn't even blink to clear the moisture.
Then, a faint, microscopic spark of sensation flickered in my left thumb.
It felt like a needle being driven through my nerve endings—a sharp, burning tingle that radiated up to my wrist.
Yes!
I poured every ounce of mental focus into that tiny spark. I imagined pushing the nerve impulse down into my index finger, forcing the muscle fibers to contract against their will.
Outside, the hum of the highway tires changed tone, shifting from the smooth asphalt of the interstate to the rough, coarse rattle of local concrete streets.
We were getting close to the crematory.
The hearse slowed down, making a wide, sweeping turn to the right. The centrifugal force threw my body slightly to the left, sliding my torso across the satin.
That shift in weight was all the leverage I needed.
May you like
With a sudden, burning spasm of agony, my left hand twitched.
My fingers scraped against the stiff wool of my suit jacket, catching the edge of the interior breast pocket.
