—At nine thirty, the notary certifies my death. The clause activates. Eleanor already sold the land. Tomorrow, bulldozers come. They’ll erase the town. The homes. The cemetery.
My legs went weak.
—What do we do? —I whispered.
His gaze sharpened.
—If I walk in, they kill me. If you walk in, they won’t believe you.
I clenched my jaw.
—Then I’m not walking in alone.
—Maria… I can’t walk—
—You don’t need to. You just need to be alive. I’ll be your legs.
I pushed the cart down the carpeted hallway toward the ballroom doors. The head housekeeper tried to stop me. I shoved past her with a threat I didn’t know I had.
Inside, Eleanor was giving a speech.
—“…to the bright future of these lands—”
I took a breath. Took two steps back.
And slammed the cart and my body into the doors.
They burst open.
Music died. A hundred faces turned. Eleanor froze, golden pen in hand.
—Security! —she shrieked. —Remove this lunatic!
Rogers stepped forward, but I screamed, my voice tearing through the room:
—THAT WOMAN IS A MURDERER!
Gasps rippled. Eleanor pointed at the cart.
—It’s an impostor! An actor! Alexander Whitmore is dead!
—Then let him show himself! —I yelled. —Let them see him!
I tipped the cart.