Back to the Day of His Fake Death

...

Beth protested immediately, "Absolutely not. Hank deserves a proper send-off. I'll throw a grand funeral for him so that everyone can pay their respects and say goodbye."

She clung to Hank's hand, her sobs echoing through the plaza.

But delaying the cremation would give Hank a chance to escape. I couldn't let that happen.

I racked my brain for a way to sway her when Evelyn Cook's call came through, questioning Laura about the hold-up.

Laura relayed the situation, and Evelyn unleashed a torrent of venom at Beth.

Beth finally caved, her shoulders slumping in defeat.

En route, her tears flowed unchecked. "Elena, touch his hand. It's still warm, like there's life in him yet."

I obliged, my fingers brushing his skin, and furrowed my brow in mock confusion. "It's cold already. Maybe it's just from you holding it so tightly?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Laura exhaling in relief.

The "star" secretary had been a fixture in our lives since I was a kid, but I'd never suspected the depths of her betrayal: birthing his son, now ten, and colluding to destroy us for their twisted happiness ever after.

The thought fueled a burning rage. I fantasized about unleashing it, making her pay in kind.

"Try patting him gently," I suggested. "I've heard that right after passing, the departed can still sense your words and touch. It's like a final connection."

Beth nodded through her haze of grief, her fingers tracing his face tenderly, and whispered endearments.

I eased her hand aside. "He might not feel that, Mom. You need to be a bit more insistent. Louder, firmer, so his spirit knows."

Beth, ever the gentle soul, tried, but her pats were light as feathers, her voice a soft murmur.

I couldn't bear the half-measures. Shoving her aside gently, I unleashed a barrage of sharp slaps across his face, each crack punctuated by my fabricated cries of despair.

It went on until Laura finally intervened, her tone edged with annoyance. "Miss Cook, that's too much. He'd be in pain."

I paused, feigning surprise. "Pain? All I wanted was for his soul to feel our love."

In my last life, after Beth's suicide, those debt hounds turned their sights on me. They stalked my campus, terrorized my friends, and blasted my "deadbeat" status across social media until I was a pariah.

School became impossible, and jobs evaporated, not even flipping burgers, as no one wanted the drama.

I scavenged the streets, digging through filth for recyclables.

Hotel dumpsters were my lifeline for scraps when hunger clawed too deep.

It was outside one such glitzy venue that I glimpsed Hank, alive and healthy.

Blinded by hope, I charged in, clung to him as salvation, and spilled my tales of woe.

He regarded me with icy detachment, like roadkill. "Heard your mom offed herself. Should thank her for paving the way for my real family to thrive."

The words detonated in my mind, but before I could demand answers, Laura's voice cut through. "A beggar crashing our celebration? Toss her out!"

Security complied, flinging me to the curb. My skull met concrete with a sickening thud, and oblivion claimed me.

Pain? This petty slapping was a mere whisper compared to the inferno I'd endured.