Chapter 3 - The Barrel of Convenience
Before anyone could rush forward to help, Richard Vance vaulted onto the platform, shoving a screaming aunt out of his way with brutal force.
He didn't reach for the broken wood. He didn't try to pull his stepson back.
With a cold, mechanical ruthlessness, Richard thrust his hand inside his tailored jacket and whipped out a heavy, matte-black Glock semi-automatic handgun, raising it high into the air.
“EVERYONE STEP BACK!” Richard bellowed, his voice echoing with a psychotic, terrifying authority that instantly paralyzed the entire congregation. “Back away from the dais right now, or I swear to God I’ll put a bullet in the first person who moves!”
Screams erupted through the chapel. People dove behind wooden pews, scrambling in blind panic toward the exits. Aunt Beatrice fainted, collapsing backward into the lap of a terrified deacon.
Yet, despite the gun pointed directly at the shattered wood, Ethan didn't retreat an inch. He dropped the heavy hammer, fell to his knees on the wooden platform, and shoved his small hands directly into the jagged opening of the coffin lid.
“Mom!” Ethan cried out, tearing away the top layer of floral padding and silk lining.
Through the narrow, splintered gap, a pale, bruised face swam into focus.
It was Claire.
Her eyes, wide and bloodshot, locked onto her son. Tears poured down her hollow, dirt-streaked cheeks. But the most horrifying part—the image that would sear itself into Ethan’s nightmares for the rest of his life—was the thick strip of silver duct tape wrapped tightly three times around her mouth, sealing her lips shut, and the heavy leather straps binding her wrists to the interior frame.
She had been placed inside the casket alive. Sedated just enough to slow her breathing, packaged like merchandise, and buried beneath heavy floral arrangements while dozens of unsuspecting mourners gathered to celebrate a funeral that was nothing more than an elaborate execution.
“Get away from her, you little bastard!” Richard snarled, stepping forward, the cold barrel of the handgun pointing straight down at Ethan’s head.
Richard’s face was twisted into a mask of pure, unhinged malice. The mask of the grieving husband was completely gone, replaced by the desperate, cornered animal who realized his multi-million-dollar insurance scam and secret life with his mistress had just been blown wide open on live chapel acoustics.
“You ruined it,” Richard hissed, his finger tightening against the trigger. “You stupid, ungrateful brat. I should have locked you in the basement with her.”
Ethan didn't flinch. He used his bare hands, ignoring the jagged splinters cutting deep into his palms, and ripped the remaining veneer of the wooden lid away, exposing his mother’s upper body to the open air of the chapel.
Sirens wailed in the distance, faint at first, but growing rapidly louder by the second. Someone in the back parking lot had called 911 the moment the first scream echoed through the doors.
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Richard glanced toward the stained-glass windows, his eyes darting frantically toward the exit. He knew he had seconds—maybe less—before the police arrived.
“This isn't over,” Richard muttered, his voice shaking with venom. He lowered the gun slightly, aiming it at Ethan’s chest. “Say goodbye to your mother, kid. Because you’re both about to take a very permanent trip.”
