September 28, Saturday
THE CRISP autumn air nipped at my fingers as I scribbled in my notebook, occasionally glancing up to watch Sawyer work. He moved with practiced ease among the headstones, his strong hands gentle as he cleared away debris and straightened flowers left by mourners.
When he reached Rose's grave, he paused, frowning at a nearby oak tree. "This tree's roots are getting too close," he muttered, more to himself than to me.
I set aside my notebook, seizing the opportunity. "Sawyer," I called out, "can I ask you something?"
He looked up, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "Sure, what's on your mind?"
I took a deep breath, steeling myself. "It's about Rose. I was wondering if you could tell me more about... how she died. How you found her."
Sawyer's shoulders tensed, his jaw clenching. "Why the sudden interest?"
"I'm just trying to understand," I said, keeping my voice gentle. "Everyone has a different version of what happened. I thought, since you were the one who found her..."
He sighed, leaning against his shovel. "It was a normal day. I came to do some work in the graveyard, and there she was, just... lying there. At first, I thought she was asleep."
"But she wasn't," I prompted softly.
Sawyer shook his head, his eyes distant. "No, she wasn't. I called for help, but it was too late. They said it was an overdose."
"Do you believe that?"
His gaze snapped to mine, suddenly sharp. "What are you getting at, Josephine? Why does it matter?"
I hesitated, then reached into my pocket. "I found something in Rose's room. I think... I think it might be important."
Sawyer's brow furrowed as I pulled out the crumpled valentine. I held it out to him, the childish cartoon animals a stark contrast to the gravity of the moment.
"'Let's talk,'" he read aloud, his voice barely above a whisper. "'Meet me in the graveyard at dusk.'"
As he looked up from the note, all the color had drained from his face. "Where did you get this?"
"It was under her bed," I explained. "Sawyer, do you know who might have—"
But he was already backing away, shaking his head. "I can't... I can't do this right now." He shoved the valentine back into my hand.
"Sawyer, wait!" I called, but he was already striding towards his truck, tools forgotten on the ground.
The roar of his engine filled the air, and then he was gone, leaving me alone among the headstones with more questions than ever.
I sank onto the concrete bench, my mind whirling. Sawyer's reaction told me one thing for certain—he knew more than he was letting on. But was it guilt I'd seen in his eyes? Or fear?
The wind picked up, sending dead leaves skittering across the graves. I shivered, suddenly aware of how isolated I was.
As I gathered my things to head back to the house, movement caught my eye. At the edge of the graveyard, partially hidden behind a large monument, stood a figure. My heart leapt into my throat.
"Hello?" I called out, my voice shaky. "Is someone there?"
But when I blinked, the figure was gone. Just a trick of the light, I told myself. Or an overactive imagination fueled by too many ghost stories.
Still, I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched as I hurried back to the Whisper House. The valentine in my pocket seemed to burn, a tangible reminder of the secrets swirling around me.
Inside, I locked the door and leaned against it, trying to calm my racing heart. What had I stumbled into? And more importantly, how deep was I willing to go to uncover the truth?
I thought of Rose, of the projects left unfinished in her workshop. Of the look on Sawyer's face when he read that note. Of the whispers and legends that seemed to permeate every corner of Irving.
As I made my way to my room, I couldn't help but glance over my shoulder. The Whisper House suddenly felt too big, too full of shadows and secrets.
For the first time since I'd arrived, I wondered if I'd made a terrible mistake in coming here. But it was too late now. I was in too deep.
All I could do was keep digging and hope I didn't end up six feet under myself.