Husband Protects Baby's Killer

The funeral ended in chaos. As mourners dispersed, I remained by my daughter's grave, unable to leave her side. The autumn wind whipped through the cemetery, carrying away the last notes of the funeral dirge that Ariella's friends had replaced with their vulgar music.

I sensed them before I saw them—Ariella's shadowy followers emerging from between the tombstones like vultures.

"Look who's still hanging around," a female voice sneered behind me. "The crazy lady who can't let go."

I turned to find three of Ariella's friends—two women and a man—approaching with predatory smiles. The tall one, a woman with stringy blonde hair, stepped forward first.

"We thought you might want to join us for a special tribute," she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness.

"I don't know what Ariella has promised you," I said, backing away slowly, "but this has gone far enough."

The man grabbed my arm, his fingers digging painfully into my flesh. "Not nearly far enough, bitch."

I tried to scream, but the shorter woman clamped her hand over my mouth, the metal of her rings cutting into my cheek.

"Save your breath," she hissed. "No one's coming to help you."

They dragged me across the parking lot toward a black van. My heels scraped against the asphalt as I struggled, but they were too strong. The van's doors opened, revealing something that made my blood run cold—a wooden coffin, its lid propped open like a waiting mouth.

"Get her inside," the man ordered.

"No!" I thrashed wildly, connecting with the man's jaw. He cursed and slapped me hard across the face.

"That's for that," he snarled, before lifting me by the waist.

I kicked and screamed as they forced me into the coffin. The wooden walls were rough against my skin as they pushed me down.

"Perfect fit," the blonde woman giggled, pulling out her phone. "Say hello to your new home, crazy lady."

The lid slammed down with a sickening thud. Darkness enveloped me completely.

"Please!" I pounded against the wood. "Let me out!"

A sliver of light appeared as they cracked the lid slightly. I heard the unmistakable sound of camera phones activating.

"Start screaming," the man instructed, his voice muffled but clear. "We want to capture your best performance."

"I'll kill you!" I shouted through tears. "Do you hear me? I'll kill all of you!"

"That's the spirit," the blonde woman cooed. "Keep going. We're live now."

The lid closed again, plunging me back into darkness. I screamed until my throat was raw, clawing at the wood until my nails broke and bled. Time lost meaning in the suffocating blackness.

---

"Look at this one," Ariella's voice floated above me as the coffin lid finally opened. "She's definitely lost it."

Light blinded me momentarily as I gasped for fresh air. They pulled me out roughly, my legs collapsing beneath me as they dumped me onto the cold ground.

"Get her picture," Ariella instructed someone. "The blood on her face makes it look even better."

I looked up to see Ariella surrounded by her friends, all grinning down at me. The blonde woman held up her phone, showing me the video they'd recorded.

"Already got ten thousand views," she said proudly. "Everyone loves watching the crazy mother who couldn't accept her baby was defective."

Ariella crouched beside me, her perfectly manicured hand patting my hair condescendingly. "You should see the comments, Riley. People are finally seeing what a pathetic mess you really are."

"She's going viral," another friend chimed in, showing her own phone screen. "Trending on three platforms already."

I tried to stand but couldn't find the strength. Ariella's friends lifted me to my feet, supporting me while Ariella posed for a selfie with my battered form in the background.

"Perfect," she declared, examining the photo. "Let's celebrate. I'm buying."

They dragged me to the edge of the parking lot before finally releasing me. I collapsed onto the grass as they piled into their cars.

"Enjoy your walk home," Ariella called out her window as they drove away. "Oh, and don't forget to check your social media! You're a star!"

---

Three days later, I sat in my apartment surrounded by printed screenshots of the videos. Each one showed me trapped in that coffin, screaming and begging for release while Ariella's friends mocked me. The comments were worse—thousands of strangers calling me unstable, delusional, deserving of my child's death.

My phone buzzed with another notification. Someone had tagged me in yet another post.

"Enough," I whispered, slamming the phone down.

I pulled out my laptop and searched for Dominick Jensen's forensic consulting firm. It was my last hope—my last resource.

The website loaded slowly, revealing a professional layout with his credentials prominently displayed. I clicked on the contact form and began typing:

"Mr. Jensen,

I need your help urgently regarding my daughter's case. I'm willing to offer any compensation you require—including marriage—in exchange for your assistance in seeking justice.

Please call me immediately.

Riley Richardson"

I hit send before I could change my mind, then sat back in my chair, exhaustion washing over me.

The response came faster than I expected. My phone rang within minutes.

"Riley?" Dominick's voice was cautious, concerned. "What's happened?"

"I need your help," I said, my voice breaking. "And I'm willing to do anything to get it."

There was a long pause before he spoke again.

"Anything?"