A whisper stopped the funeral cold — when the grandmother opened the coffin, a terrifying truth was revealed.

“Oh my God,” I gasped, the sound tearing out of my throat.

I scrambled for the pocket knife I keep on my keychain—a habit from my late husband. I sawed frantically at the zip-ties, nicking her skin in my haste, but I didn’t care. I cut the strap across her chest.

Ava took a massive, shuddering gasp of air. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused, pupil dilated to the size of dinner plates. She was drugged to the gills.

“I’ve got you,” I sobbed, pulling her limp body into my arms, the smell of chemicals rising from her skin. “Nana’s got you.”

The Confrontation
I had just pulled my phone out to dial 911 when the double doors of the viewing room burst open.

It wasn’t the funeral director.

It was Rachel.

She was wearing a black trench coat, her hair wet from the rain, her face twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated panic that instantly hardened into rage. She had come back to check the work. To make sure the sedative was holding.

She saw the open casket. She saw Ava in my arms.

For a second, there was silence—a heavy, suffocating silence where the truth hung between us like a guillotine blade.

“Put her back,” Rachel said. Her voice wasn’t hysterical. It was cold. Dead. It was the voice of a woman who had calculated the dosage of poison for her own child.

“She’s alive, Rachel,” I said, my voice shaking with a rage so potent I felt I could burn the building down. “You buried her alive.”

“She’s sick, Susan,” Rachel said, taking a step forward, reaching into her pocket. “She’s suffering. It’s better this way. We have the insurance. We can all start over. Michael needs this money. I need this.”

She pulled out a syringe.

“Put her back, and we can close the lid,” she whispered, stepping closer. “She won’t feel a thing. It’s almost over.”

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