The funeral director, Earl, stood beside me as the November wind whipped through the cemetery, his face a mask of professional stoicism. I thought he was there to offer comfort, but then he leaned in close, his voice barely a tremor in the cold air. “Your mother paid me to bury an empty coffin,” he whispered. I froze, my heart slamming against my ribs as he pressed a cold brass key into my palm. My mother had been dead for six days—or so I thought. This wasn’t a funeral; it was a front, and the terrifying truth was about to destroy everything I knew.