Chapter 3 - The Crematory Ambush
At 11:30 AM, a nondescript white commercial van with blacked-out rear windows backed into the subterranean delivery dock of the county morgue.
Two men in gray coveralls stepped out, carrying heavy industrial transport straps and a collapsible gurney.
Waiting inside the refrigeration bay stood Vanessa, dressed in a black silk trench coat, oversized designer sunglasses, and carrying a leather Birkin bag.
She tapped her foot impatiently against the concrete floor, checking the digital clock on the wall.
"You're late," she hissed at the lead driver.
"Traffic on the expressway, lady," the driver grunted, rolling the gurney toward the steel slab covered by a white sheet.
"Is the death certificate signed?"
Vanessa reached into her purse and slapped a stamped folder against his clipboard.
"Cardiac arrest. Signed by Chief Coroner Hall. No family viewing, immediate closed-retort incineration as specified in his estate directive."
"Got it," the driver said, reaching for the edge of the sheet covering my supposedly lifeless body.
"Wait," Vanessa ordered, stepping closer to the gurney.
She looked down at the outline of my chest beneath the cloth, her lips curling into a triumphant sneer.
"Goodbye, Ethan," she whispered, leaning down so close her perfume filled the air.
"You really were a fool. But your eighty million dollars will build a magnificent life for Adrian and me."
She reached out to slip my platinum wedding band off my ring finger.
As her manicured fingers touched the cold metal, my hand snapped shut around her wrist like a titanium vice.
Vanessa’s breath caught in her throat.
She froze, her eyes bulging behind her sunglasses, unable to process the living, crushing grip holding her arm.
I pulled the white sheet down with my other hand, sitting upright on the steel table, staring straight into her terrified face.
"Eighty million dollars, Vanessa?" I said, my voice echoing off the concrete walls like an iron mallet.
"That's a steep price for a wedding that lasted less than twelve hours."
Vanessa opened her mouth to scream, but the sound died in her throat as the two transport drivers stepped back.
The men in gray coveralls unzipped their jackets, revealing the gold badges of the Illinois State Police and federal tactical gear.
May you like
"Don't move, Mrs. Whitmore," the lead agent said, his weapon clearing its holster in a fraction of a second.
"Or should I call you Mrs. Adrian Cole?"
