Chapter 3 - The Ghost at Her Own Wake
Three days later, the gray winter skies over the historic St. Jude Cemetery in downtown Denver mirrored the somber mood of the morning. A heavy velvet-draped mahogany casket sat resting above an open grave, surrounded by extravagant floral arrangements of white lilies and orchids.
Dozens of high-society mourners dressed in mourning black stood shivering in the biting cold. At the very front of the gathering stood Victor Hale, wearing a bespoke tailored black wool suit, dabbing at dry eyes with a pristine silk handkerchief. Beside him stood Serena, clad in a sleek designer black dress, wearing an expression of theatrical, suffocating grief that fooled absolutely no one who looked closely.
Victor stepped up to the podium, clearing his throat to address the somber crowd. His voice trembled with rehearsed, Academy-Award-winning sorrow.
“Elena was the light of my life,” Victor projected, his voice echoing smoothly across the cemetery grounds. “Her sudden, tragic loss in the blinding snows of Aspen has left a void in my soul that can never be filled. She loved the mountains... and tragically, they took her, and our unborn child, away from me forever.”
In the back row, standing beneath the broad canopy of a towering oak tree, I watched him.
I wore a heavy black veil that shadowed my face, a thick wool trench coat hiding the lingering medical braces, and dark sunglasses shielding my eyes. Standing right beside me was my father, Adrian Cross, flanked by two discreet private security operatives in plain clothes.
“Look at him,” Adrian muttered under his breath, his hands clenched into tight fists inside his overcoat pockets. “The man is a theatrical sociopath.”
“Let him enjoy his final moments in the spotlight,” I murmured back, my voice completely steady. “The curtain is about to drop.”
As Victor finished his speech and stepped down to polite, sympathetic murmurs from the crowd, the mood shifted. People began moving toward the gravesite to offer their final condolences to the grieving widower. Serena clung tightly to Victor’s arm, whispering something in his ear that made him flash a brief, triumphant smirk—a smirk he quickly covered up with a solemn frown when an elderly family friend approached to hug him.
It was time.
I took a deep, steadying breath, adjusted my veil, and began walking slowly up the paved path toward the front of the gathering. Adrian stayed a half-step behind me, acting as my silent, immovable anchor.
With every step I took, the chatter around the casket began to die down. The mourners nearest to the path noticed my approach first. Whispers broke out like ripples across a pond. Someone dropped a prayer book.
Victor, who was currently accepting a comforting embrace from a wealthy business associate, looked up toward the sound of the sudden disturbance.
His eyes locked onto mine.
The color drained entirely from Victor’s face. His mouth dropped open, his jaw slackening as his eyes bulged in pure, unadulterated terror. He pushed the business associate away so violently the man stumbled backward into a wreath of lilies.
Serena turned to see what had paralyzed him, followed his gaze, and let out a piercing, blood-curdling scream that cut through the cold winter air like a siren.
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“G-Ghost...” Victor stammered, stumbling backward until the back of his knees hit the edge of the mahogany casket. He raised a shaking, pale finger toward me, his voice pitching into a panicked squeak. “E-Elena? No... no, that’s impossible! You’re dead! I pushed you! I watched you fall!”
The entire cemetery plunged into absolute, stunned silence. Every single mourner stared at Victor in mounting horror, the masked facade of his grief instantly shattering into a million pieces.
