Paramedics burst into the chapel, pushing past stunned executives and grieving relatives who now looked more frightened than sorrowful. They examined my brother quickly, confirming a dangerously suppressed but present pulse.
As they lifted him onto a stretcher, he clutched my wrist with surprising strength. “Don’t trust them,” he whispered, his eyes flicking toward our father and several board members standing stiffly in the aisle.
Grace stepped beside me. “There’s a private trauma center in Providence not connected to the company’s network,” she said quickly. “Send him there.”
I didn’t hesitate. “Take him to Providence Medical,” I instructed the paramedics.
My father’s voice cut through the tension. “You’re making a mistake.”
“Maybe,” I replied steadily, “but at least this one won’t bury him alive.”
As the stretcher rolled down the aisle, past shattered glass and wilting orchids, the illusion of controlled grief disintegrated completely. Guests whispered about lawsuits, criminal charges, corporate sabotage. Cameras from local news crews began gathering outside, drawn by frantic calls from attendees who could no longer pretend nothing had happened.
My father approached me once the chaos thinned, his composure cracking for the first time in my life. “You don’t understand the consequences,” he said quietly.
“I understand that my brother was nearly sealed in a coffin while still breathing,” I answered.
Grace stood at my side, her posture firm despite the exhaustion etched into her face. “He was given a paralytic compound,” she said. “It slows respiration and heart rate to near-undetectable levels. In the wrong hands, it can mimic death.”
