PART 2:

” Those were his exact words. Dr. Webb had gone white as chalk. His medical bag slipped from his fingers and hit the ground with a thud. Marcus, however, remained perfectly composed. This is absurd. This man is clearly having some kind of breakdown. My wife was examined by a licensed physician. He gestured toward Dr. Webb and pronounced dead over 12 hours ago.

This is nothing but a pathetic attempt at at what? Attention, money. I want him arrested for disturbing the peace and then prove me wrong, Aaron interrupted, his voice suddenly calm. Eerily calm. He stopped struggling against the guards and instead looked directly at Marcus with eyes that had seen too much loss in their time.

If I’m crazy, if I’m lying, if this is all just some delusion, then proving me wrong should be simple. Open the casket, check her vitals. If she’s truly dead, I’ll leave quietly. I’ll never work in this city again. I’ll accept whatever consequences you want to impose. The silence that followed was absolute. But if I’m right, Aaron continued softly.

And you refuse to check, then everyone here will know exactly what that means. 300 people held their breath. 300 phones recorded every second. The reporters pressed closer, sensing blood in the water. Marcus’ jaw clenched. This wasn’t in the plan. The janitor wasn’t supposed to. How the hell had a maintenance worker been in the funeral home office two nights ago? Marcus had been so careful.

He’d checked the place himself before having that conversation with Dr. Webb. The cleaning staff wasn’t supposed to come until Thursday, but Marcus Cross hadn’t built his reputation or his wife’s fortune, which he’d helped manage by panicking in crisis moments. His mind raced through scenarios, possibilities, exits.

If he refused to open the casket, the media would crucify him. The speculation alone would be enough to trigger investigations. Insurance companies didn’t pay out on suspicious deaths. The board at Helix Technologies would freeze all succession plans. Everything would unravel. But if he opened the casket and Evelyn was truly dead, and she should be.

The drug should have kept her under for at least another 6 hours. According to doctor, Webb’s calculations, then this janitor would be exposed as a lunatic, and Marcus could proceed with burying his wife with even more public sympathy than before. The calculation took 3 seconds. “Fine,” Marcus said coldly. “Open it.

Let’s put this insanity to rest.” He gestured to the funeral director, a nervous man named Patterson, who looked like he wanted to disappear into the earth himself. Patterson hesitated, looking between Marcus and Aaron, and the crowd and the cameras. “Mr. Cross, I This is highly irregular. Open the casket.

” Marcus’s voice could have frozen nitrogen. Patterson nodded to his assistants. Together, they moved to the lowering mechanism and began raising the casket back up to ground level. The hydraulics winded in protest, as if the machinery itself knew this was wrong. Aaron finally stopped struggling. The security guards loosened their grip slightly, but didn’t release him. Dr.

Webb stood frozen, his face the color of old newspaper. Marcus positioned himself at the head of the casket, his expression now one of sorrowful indulgence. See how patient I am with this madman, even in my moment of grief. He was already planning his follow-up statement to the press. Patterson and his assistants unfassened the casket locks.

The seals released with small hissing sounds. Slowly, with the reverence trained into them by years of handling the dead, they lifted the casket lid. Evelyn Cross lay perfectly still in white silk, her hands folded across her chest, her face made up to look peaceful in death. She was a beautiful woman, had been a beautiful woman, with sharp, intelligent features and dark hair that fell in waves around her pale face.

The mortician had done excellent work. She looked exactly like a person who had died of natural causes. Patterson leaned in cautiously, professional to the last. He placed two fingers against Evelyn’s throat, feeling for the corroted artery. He waited, frowned, adjusted his fingers, waited again. “There’s no pulse,” he announced.

“I’m sorry, but this woman is check her wrist,” Aaron interrupted. “The radial artery. The drug they use slows the heart rate to almost nothing. You need to check for at least 30 seconds.” Patterson looked to Marcus, who gave a curt nod. See how accommodating I am? The funeral director took Evelyn’s wrist gently and pressed his fingers against the inside of her arm.

He stared at his watch, counting. The crowd was so quiet you could hear the distant sound of traffic on the highway. 10 seconds. Nothing. Marcus began to relax. 20 seconds. Still nothing. Dr. Webb’s hand crept back toward his jacket pocket. 25 seconds. Patterson’s eyes widened. Wait, he whispered. Wait, I think he grabbed his stethoscope from his assistant and pressed it to Evelyn’s chest, right over her heart.

His face went from professional calm to shock in the space of a heartbeat. Her heartbeat. “Oh my god!” Patterson breathed. “Oh my god, she’s There’s a pulse. It’s slow. Impossibly slow, but it’s there. She’s alive. She’s alive.” The crowd exploded. Reporters screamed questions. Mourners gasped and shrieked.

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