It wasn’t a trick of candlelight or grief playing with his mind. He saw it clearly: Camila’s chest rising just barely, like every breath cost her something. Her eyelids trembled. Her dry lips struggled to part. The ivory dress they had chosen for the viewing pressed awkwardly against her throat… almost like it was suffocating her.
Ernest didn’t scream.
He dropped to his knees and reached into the coffin.
And then he understood.
Camila wasn’t laid out like a sleeping child. She was restrained.
Thin metal clamps held her wrists against the satin lining. The skin around them was red, bruised—angry. There was a fresh bruise on her ankle. Her body burned with fever… but her legs were cold.
This wasn’t a mistake.
This was planned.
His hands shook as he tried to free her, fear making his fingers clumsy. And then Camila opened her eyes.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream.
She just looked at him.
And in her gaze was a fear far too old for a six-year-old child.
“Grandpa… I was good… I didn’t say anything…”
The words pierced him.