Charles Whitaker had built his fortune over decades of disciplined choices and calculated risks.
At sixty-two, he stood inside the quiet viewing room of Brookside Memorial Funeral Home. His silver hair was neatly combed, his tailored black suit flawless down to the smallest crease. He looked every inch the powerful executive the world knew.
But today, none of that mattered.
Inside the polished white casket lay his mother, Margaret Whitaker.
Eighty-seven years old.
The doctors had called it a massive stroke.
Quick. Painless.
“She simply didn’t wake up,” they said.
Charles had flown in from New York within hours, arranging everything with the same precision he applied to business deals. The service was scheduled for the next morning—simple, dignified, exactly what Margaret would have wanted. Or at least, what he told himself.
Standing beside him was his younger sister, Elaine, fifty-nine, her blonde hair pulled back tightly, her black dress heavy with grief. She dabbed her eyes with a tissue, shoulders trembling.
“She looks peaceful,” Elaine whispered.
Charles nodded but said nothing. Words pressed against his chest—regret, maybe. Or the quiet realization that he’d spent too many years chasing success and too few visiting home.
The funeral director, a thin man with graying
temples, approached softly.
“We’ll be closing soon for the evening. You’re welcome to stay a little longer, Mr. Whitaker, but the building will be locked at eight.”
“I understand,” Charles replied calmly.
As relatives filed out one by one, offering hushed condolences, Charles remained. Elaine stepped away to check on the floral arrangements.
The room grew silent.
Then he heard it.
At first, it was barely noticeable—a faint shuffle from the hallway. Then a voice, low and urgent.
“Mr. Collins? Mr. Collins, are you still here?”
Charles turned to see a woman rushing into the room, wearing an orange-and-white service uniform. She looked to be in her mid-forties, dark hair pulled into a ponytail, face flushed from exertion.
Her name tag read Isabel Cruz.
She was part of the cleaning staff. Charles vaguely remembered seeing her earlier, quietly working in the background.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Isabel said breathlessly. “But I need to find Mr. Collins. It’s urgent.”
“He just left,” Charles replied coolly. “The service is tomorrow morning. If you’re here to clean, you’ll need to wait.”
But Isabel wasn’t looking at him.
She was staring at the casket.
“Sir,” she said slowly, her eyes wide. “I need to tell you something… about your mother.”
Irritation flared in Charles’ chest.
“I don’t think—”