Ryan gets suspicious when his dog races into the church and starts barking at his father’s coffin. Seeing the dog in an alert position, Ryan opens the casket, only to find his father’s body missing.
Ryan stepped out of his car, his gaze fixed on the church entrance as mourners drifted slowly inside. The morning sun cast long shadows over the steps, and grief tightened around his chest like a noose. It didn’t feel right. None of this did.
He paused to check on Bella, his German Shepherd, still in the back seat. Her fur bristled, her body tense, and she let out a low, warning growl.
“Easy, girl,” he murmured, reaching in to pat her head. She didn’t relax.
“Stay, Bella,” he instructed, and reluctantly closed the car door.
Inside, the church was quiet, somber. Arnold’s casket sat near the altar—closed, sealed off, guarded in grief and silence. Ryan took his seat beside his mother, who clutched a crumpled tissue like a lifeline.
Then, just as the choir began the final hymn, the doors burst open.
Bella charged down the aisle, barking, frantic.
“Bella!” Ryan called, standing in shock.
She jumped on the casket, sniffed rapidly, then dropped to the ground—silent, still, alert.
Ryan’s gut twisted.
“Open it,” he said aloud, stepping forward.
The funeral director tried to intervene, but Ryan was already lifting the lid.
Gasps echoed.
The casket was empty.
Chaos followed. Ryan’s mother fainted. His uncle shouted for answers. Within minutes, paramedics arrived and rushed his mother to the hospital. But Ryan had no answers—only a storm of questions and a loyal dog who refused to leave the casket’s side.
Back at home, Ryan dialed the police. Detective Bradshaw took the case and listened carefully as he explained everything.
“Was your father involved in anything… unusual?” she asked.
Ryan hesitated. “Not that I know of. We were never close. I’ve been running my dog training center. We hadn’t spoken much in recent months.”
With no firm leads, Bradshaw left. But Ryan couldn’t sit still.
He drove straight to the morgue. The nurse at the desk told him the coroner had resigned. There was no replacement. No oversight.
“I need to see my father’s file,” Ryan demanded.
“Policy won’t allow that.”
He reached into his wallet and slid $1000 across the counter.
The nurse sighed. “Five minutes. I didn’t see anything.”
Ryan slipped inside and searched every cabinet. No file. No trace. As if Arnold Adams had never died.
His phone buzzed. Mr. Stevens, his father’s lawyer, requested an urgent meeting.
At his father’s office, Ryan found Arnold’s email account completely wiped.
“Who deleted these?” Ryan asked.
“No one’s touched the system,” Stevens said.
Ryan glanced around the office and frowned. Two of his father’s prized dancer figurines were gone.
“He always wanted the third,” Stevens mused. “Some collector has it. Refuses to sell it for less than half a million.”
Ryan didn’t answer. He was already piecing things together.
Stevens went on to explain that the company was failing—investors were fleeing, citing Arnold’s absence and strange behavior. And then came the final blow.
“His secretary—Miss Pearson—there were… rumors. About an affair. About her influence.”
Ryan’s jaw clenched. That night, he followed her home.
He watched her leave, then broke into her house. A photo of her kissing Arnold sat on the nightstand. But it was what he found in the coffee table that stunned him.
A life insurance policy worth $7 million—with Miss Pearson as the sole beneficiary.
He took it straight to Bradshaw.
“Interesting,” she said. “We’ve just learned she’s booked a flight to Morocco. Thirty minutes until takeoff.”
Ryan tried to join the operation, but Bradshaw refused. “You’re not law enforcement.”
He ignored her and followed anyway.
At the airport, he blended in with the officers.
“White shirt! Step aside!” Bradshaw shouted.
But it wasn’t her.
Miss Pearson had vanished.
Back to square one—but not for long.
Ryan remembered the missing figurines. If Arnold was alive, he’d want the final one. It was his obsession.
Ryan found the collector. The price? $750,000.
He called Mr. Stevens.
“Sell my shares. I need the money now.”
“You’ll lose control of the company.”
“I’ll buy them back. Just do it.”
He purchased the figurine and arranged for it to be auctioned—an anonymous event. He placed ads in all the right circles.
If Arnold was alive, he’d come.
The day of the auction, Ryan watched from the shadows.
The figurine went up.
“Six hundred thousand,” the auctioneer called.
“Going once…”
Ryan held his breath.
“Going twice…”
“One million,” came a voice from the back.
Ryan turned.
Arnold Adams stood, removing his hat.
“Sold!”
Ryan stepped into his father’s path. “Going somewhere?”
Detective Bradshaw emerged and cuffed Arnold.
“You faked your death,” Ryan growled. “You stole from your company. Lied to Mom. Used your mistress to cash in on your own funeral.”
Arnold sighed. “I wanted a new life. I couldn’t stand the old one anymore.”
“And yet you couldn’t resist the one thing that tied you to all of this,” Ryan said, holding up the figurine. “Your pride.”
Bradshaw led Arnold away.
“We’ll find Miss Pearson too,” she promised.
Ryan looked down at Bella, tail wagging, eyes proud.
“Good girl,” he whispered. “You knew it all along.”
