What matters is only this: my husband and my sister had drugged me, together, in my own home, and staged my death for the insurance and the house and the property my aunt had left me.

They had held a wake over a woman who was still breathing.

And they were, at that very moment, standing over my open coffin, dividing me up.

Chapter 5 — Wesley Saw Me

Then I heard small, uneven footsteps come toward the box.

It was Wesley — my sister’s son, seven years old, holding a half-eaten chocolate cookie in one fist.

He came right up to the coffin, the way only a child would, and put his eye to the gap near my face.

Our eyes met in the dark.