“Don’t even bury her yet, and you’re already giving away her things.”
I recognized my mother’s voice before I could understand where I was.
My eyelids felt impossibly heavy. My mouth was dry, my limbs were weak, and a strange ringing filled my ears. When I tried to move my hands, they barely responded.
Then I smelled the flowers.
Hundreds of white flowers surrounded me, filling the air with their sweet, overwhelming fragrance. Somewhere nearby, a woman was crying. Others were whispering prayers, their voices blending with the low murmur of people gathered for a funeral.
A funeral.
My funeral.
I was lying inside a coffin in my mother’s living room, dressed in an elegant cream-colored gown. A rosary rested on my chest, and my hands had been carefully folded over my stomach.
For several seconds, I couldn’t understand how I had gotten there.
My name is Renee Mitchell. I was thirty-four years old, married to Preston Mitchell, and the owner of a small but successful interior design business. I had spent years building my career, saving money, and trying to create a stable life for the people I loved.
I had never imagined that the people closest to me might become the greatest danger I would ever face.
The last thing I remembered was the previous evening.
My sister, Sabine, had visited my house with a warm smile and a cup of milk flavored with cinnamon.
“You look exhausted, Renee,” she had said. “Drink this before bed. You need to take better care of yourself.”
I had thanked her.
A few minutes later, Preston came into the kitchen, and we argued about a $42,000 transfer I had discovered in our joint bank account.
He claimed the money had gone toward a business investment. But when I asked to see the documentation, he became defensive.
“Why do you always have to question everything I do?” he snapped.
“Because it’s our money, Preston. I have a right to know where it’s going.”
He stared at me for a long moment before walking away.
I remembered taking another sip of the milk.
Then an overwhelming wave of sleepiness washed over me.
I tried to reach my bedroom, but the hallway seemed to stretch endlessly before my eyes. My legs felt weak, and my thoughts became confused.
After that, everything went dark.
And now I was lying in a coffin.
I desperately wanted to sit up, but my body felt as though it weighed a thousand pounds. I couldn’t even tell whether I was dreaming.
Then I heard Preston speak again.
“Deborah, don’t worry. Renee told me many times that if anything ever happened to her, she wanted Sabine to have this.”
I recognized the name of the necklace before I saw it.
My grandmother had given it to me when I turned fifteen. It was a delicate gold chain with a small pendant, one of the few family heirlooms I treasured.
Through a narrow opening in the coffin lid, I saw Preston holding it.
My mother, Deborah, was standing nearby, her eyes red from crying.
“She never took that necklace off,” my mother murmured. “Not even when she went to sleep.”
“Exactly,” Preston replied. “I don’t want it sitting forgotten in a drawer.”
He walked toward Sabine.
My younger sister stood beside the fireplace, wearing a black dress and an expression of carefully arranged sadness.
She lowered her head as Preston fastened the necklace around her neck.
But I noticed something that made my stomach turn.
She wasn’t looking at my photograph.
She was looking at the necklace.
“What if someone asks where it came from?” she whispered.
Preston gave a quiet, dismissive laugh.
“No one will ask anything. The death certificate is already done. Once the insurance paperwork is processed, we’ll have enough money to settle everything.”
My heart began pounding.
Insurance?
What insurance?
I had a life insurance policy worth $500,000. Preston was the beneficiary.
I had taken out the policy years earlier because I wanted to make sure my family would be financially secure if something happened to me.
Now my husband was standing beside my coffin, discussing the money he expected to receive after my death.
And my sister was wearing my grandmother’s necklace.
I tried to scream, but only a weak breath escaped my lips.
Then Sabine spoke again.
“I was afraid she would notice the taste.”
The room suddenly seemed to tilt around me.
Preston stepped closer to her and lowered his voice.
“I told you how much to put in. She was asleep in less than ten minutes.”
For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
They had done something to the milk.
The two people I had trusted most had been discussing my death as though it were a business transaction.
I wanted to throw open the coffin lid. I wanted to expose them in front of every relative gathered in my mother’s house.
But my body still wouldn’t cooperate.
I was frightened, confused, and barely able to move.
I understood that if I revealed myself too soon, I might be placing myself in even greater danger.
So I stayed still and listened.
My aunts continued praying for my soul. A neighbor asked when the funeral procession would leave for Fernhaven Cemetery.
Someone mentioned that the funeral director had already arrived.
Every passing minute brought the possibility of being buried alive closer.
I had to find a way to make someone understand that I was still there.
That I was still alive.
Then I heard a familiar pair of small footsteps.
“Aunt Renee?”
It was Julian, Sabine’s seven-year-old son.
He had always been a curious child. Whenever he visited my house, he followed me around asking questions about everything he saw.
He approached the coffin while holding a half-eaten cookie.
“Mom, can I see her?”
“Not now, sweetheart,” Sabine answered quickly. “Go sit with your grandmother.”
But Julian was already leaning toward the narrow opening in the coffin lid.
I forced myself to concentrate.
My eyelids felt heavy, and even the smallest movement seemed to require every ounce of strength I possessed.
Still, I managed to open my eyes.
Just a little.
Julian froze.
His cookie slipped from his fingers and landed on the carpet.
He stared at me, his little face turning pale.
Then he leaned closer.
“Aunt Renee?”
I blinked again.
His mouth fell open.
He spun around and ran toward his mother.
“Mom! Mom! Aunt Renee is looking at me!”
Sabine immediately turned toward the coffin.
“What are you talking about?”
“She’s not dead!” Julian cried. “I saw her eyes move!”
The conversations around the room stopped.
Preston’s face changed.
For the first time that morning, the confident expression he had worn since arriving at the funeral disappeared completely.
He hurried toward the coffin.
“That’s impossible,” he muttered.
My mother began trembling.
“Preston, what is the boy talking about?”
“Nothing,” he replied sharply. “He’s confused. Children imagine things.”
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