Ch.2: The Empty Coffin

The earth came away in wet, heavy clumps, sliding under my fingernails and packing into the cuticles until the pressure turned to a dull throb.

I didn't care. I scooped and clawed, tossing handfuls of mud over my shoulder like a dog. The rain was torrential now, turning the grave into a slick, sliding pit, but the dirt was still loose. It hadn't had time to settle. It hadn't had time to become part of the ground.

My knuckles scraped against something hard.

*Thud.*

The sound wasn't the hollow echo of wood. It was the dull, plasticized knock of a composite infant casket.

I stopped, chest heaving, steam rising from my coat into the freezing air. My hands were unrecognizable—caked in black sludge, bleeding from three different fingers. I wiped them on my jeans, leaving dark streaks, and reached down to find the latches.

This was a felony. Desecration of a grave. If a groundskeeper walked by, I would go straight back to the psych ward, do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars.

*Click.*

The first latch gave way.

*Click.*

The second.

I hesitated. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. What if I was wrong? What if I opened this lid and saw the decomposing face of my daughter? What if the photo on Instagram was just a cruel coincidence, a lookalike, a trick of the light? If I saw her body, the last shred of my sanity would dissolve right here in this hole.

"Please," I whispered to the rain. "Please don't be there."

I threw the lid back.

It wasn't empty.

A heavy shape rested in the center, swaddled perfectly in a pink hospital blanket with blue stripes—the standard issue St. Jude’s swaddle. It was the size of a newborn. The weight of a newborn.

My breath hitched. The world spun. I reached out, my shaking hand hovering over the blanket. I expected the cold yield of dead flesh.

I grabbed the fabric and ripped it open.

Red dust puffed up into the rain.

Rough, abrasive clay. Sharp corners. No skin. No bone.

Bricks.

Three construction bricks, taped together with duct tape to mimic the heft of an eight-pound infant. They had even padded the corners with cotton balls so the shape wouldn't look too boxy through the blanket.

I stared at the red clay, the rain darkening it to the color of dried blood.

A laugh bubbled up in my throat—a jagged, hysterical sound that scared me more than the silence. It was a prop. My daughter’s funeral was a theatrical production, and I was the only audience member who didn't know the script.

They hadn't just stolen her. They had mocked me. They had wrapped construction materials in a blanket and watched me cry over it. They had watched me kiss the lid of a box filled with masonry.

A beam of light sliced through the darkness above me, cutting off my laughter.

I froze, crouching low in the mud.

Headlights. A car was idling at the wrought-iron gates of the cemetery, two hundred yards away. It wasn't a patrol car. It was a black sedan, sleek and silent, its engine a low purr that barely carried over the wind.

The high beams were fixed directly on me.

They weren't patrolling. They were watching. Waiting to see if the "crazy mother" would actually take the bait.

I didn't cower. I didn't hide my face. I stood up in the grave, the mud sliding off my coat, and stared right into the blinding lights. I wanted them to see me. I wanted them to know that the woman who knelt here weeping three hours ago was gone.

The sedan idled for three seconds—a long, deliberate pause—and then the engine roared. Tires squealed on the wet asphalt, and the car tore away into the night, red taillights blurring into streaks of blood.

I looked down at the open casket one last time. I reached in and grabbed one of the bricks. It was heavy, rough, and solid in my grip.

They thought bricks would fool a grieving mother. They just gave me the weapon I needed to kill them.