BURIED IN THE LIGHT

The insurance claim clears on Friday.

They hadn't just murdered me for a secret affair; they had poisoned me for my three-million-dollar life insurance policy and my majority stake in Carter Logistics—the firm my late father had built with his own hands.

As the realization settled into my mind, the chemical paralysis induced by whatever drug Monica had slipped into my tea began to break down under a massive surge of adrenaline. The fire in my lungs grew unbearable. My chest violently expanded, seeking oxygen.

I am not going to die in this box, I swore to myself. I am not going to let them walk away with my life.

I focused every ounce of my willpower into my right arm.

My fingers twitched again. Then my hand flexed against the silk padding. The feeling was returning—a sharp, prickling sensation like a thousand freezing needles stabbing through my flesh.

Outside, the estate door opened, and heavy footsteps echoed across the entryway.

“Mr. Carter?” a deep, professional voice called out. “The transport team from Oakridge Funeral Home is here. We need to seal the casket for the procession to the cemetery.”

“Of course, Director,” Daniel replied smoothly, his tone instantly shifting into one of heartbreaking grief. “We are ready. Let me just say one final goodbye to my sweet Elena.”

I heard his polished leather shoes step up to the side of the casket.

Daniel reached down, his fingers gripping the brass handle of the hinged wooden lid to close the three-inch gap forever.

He leaned his face down toward the opening, whispering in a low, poisonous voice that only a corpse was meant to hear:

“Rest in peace, Elena. You were always too smart for your own good.”

As the heavy mahogany lid began to swing downward to lock into place, my right hand shot out of the casket like a striking snake.

My cold, pale fingers clamped firmly around Daniel’s wrist.

The wooden lid slammed against the frame with a deafening CRACK, but it didn't seal. My arm was wedged in the opening, holding him fast.

Daniel let out a sharp, choked gasp of sheer terror. He tried to pull his arm back, but my grip—fueled by adrenaline, rage, and the desperate instinct to survive—was like a vice of solid iron.

“D... Daniel?” Monica stammered from behind him, her face turning as white as the funeral lilies. “What... what are you doing?”

“She’s... she’s holding me!” Daniel shrieked, his polished composure shattering into pure, hysterical panic. “GET IT OFF ME! GET HER OFF ME!”

With a violent, lung-bursting effort, I pushed the heavy wooden lid upward.

The mahogany panel swung open, crashing against the side table, shattering my silver portrait frame onto the floorboards.

I sat straight up inside the satin-lined casket, gasping for air, a loud, ragged, terrifying breath tearing from my lungs.

My mother let out a high-pitched scream and collapsed onto the sofa. The funeral director froze in the doorway, his mouth open in utter disbelief. Relatives scrambled backward, knocking over chairs and flower arrangements in a chaotic stampede of terror.

I turned my head slowly toward Daniel.

He was trembling violently, his eyes wide with a primal, suffocating fear, staring at his "dead" wife sitting upright in her coffin. My grandmother’s gold chain was still wrapped around Monica’s neck.