Chapter Three
Rainey
The dead roses were there Saturday morning, black petals scattered across the shop's doorstep. A dozen of them, tied with a fraying red ribbon, left where anyone walking down Main Street could see them.
Two days since that first rehearsal with Ransom, and I hadn't stopped thinking about him.
A knot formed in my stomach.
I bent down, fingers hesitating before touching the bouquet. The petals crumbled at my touch, releasing that sickly-sweet scent of decay. Tucked among the stems was a note, the handwriting spidery: You were beautiful in red.
My skin crawled. I'd worn red to rehearsal Thursday night—a vintage blouse I'd chosen from the shop's inventory. Someone had been watching. Someone had been close enough to notice details.
"Rainey!" Ellie Wilson's voice cut through my thoughts. My best friend ran across the square from Sweet Dreams Bakery, her apron still dusted with flour. "What is that? Are those—oh my God, are those dead roses?"
I stood, the note crumpling in my fist. "Found them now."
Ellie reached me, breathing hard. Her blonde curls had escaped their bun, and her blue eyes were wide with concern. "Who would do this? This is creepy as hell."
"I don't know." But I had suspects. Brooke's face with her pageant-perfect smile flashed through my mind. Or maybe Dee Dee, escalating her pressure tactics? "Could be someone's idea of a Halloween prank."
"That's not a prank. That's a threat." Ellie grabbed my arm. "You need to tell Sheriff Turley."
"Tell him what? That someone left me dead flowers? It's probably nothing."
"Rainey—"
"I saw someone here last night."
We both jumped. Mason Davenport appeared at the corner of the building, paint-stained jeans and a faded work shirt making him look like he'd rolled out of bed. The carpenter's dark hair stuck up at odd angles, and the way he stared at me made me take a step back.
Mason had been asking me out since high school—always too intense, always persistent, never taking no for an answer. I'd turned him down at least half a dozen times over the years.
"Mason." I tried to keep my tone steady. "What are you talking about?"
"Around midnight. I was working late." He gestured vaguely toward the converted barn he used as a workshop on the edge of town.
"Drove past here on my way home. Saw someone at your door.
Thought it was you at first, but..." He shook his head.
"They moved wrong. Too quick. Like they didn't want to be seen. "
The hair on the back of my neck stood up. "Did you see who it was?"
"Too dark. But they were carrying something. Could've been those." He looked down at the dead roses, then back to my face. "You should be careful, Rainey. Lock your doors. Maybe don't walk home alone."
His tone—concerned but possessive—set me on edge. That protective edge in his voice—like he had some claim on me—made my skin prickle. He'd never quite accepted that we were just acquaintances. How often did he drive past the shop?
"Thanks for the heads up," I managed.
He nodded, lingering for a moment too long before heading back toward his truck parked down the street.
Ellie waited until he was out of earshot. "Okay, that was weird. Is he still doing that thing where he just happens to show up wherever you are?"
"Small town. Everyone knows everyone's business." But my hands were shaking as I unlocked the shop door. "Come on. I need coffee before I deal with this."
Inside, Midnight Curiosities felt different this morning. I'd grown up here, learned to love beautiful things from Gran. Now it felt violated somehow, knowing someone had been watching.
"I'll make the coffee," Ellie said, heading toward the back room where we kept a small kitchen setup. "You sit down before you fall down."
I sank onto the stool behind the counter, the decaying flowers still in my hand. My phone buzzed—a text from Vivian: Rehearsal tonight. 7pm. Running Evangeline's scene with the fortune teller. Bring your best mystical energy!
Right. Because what I needed was to spend the evening pretending to summon the dead while creepy things were happening in real life.
The bell above the door chimed. I looked up, expecting Gran—she usually came down from her apartment around this time.
Instead, Laurel Hayes floated in, her oversized sweater drowning her frame, a constellation-patterned scarf trailing behind her, mismatched shoes peeking from beneath her long swirly skirt.
Her thick glasses sat slightly crooked on her nose.
She had that dreamy, distracted look she always wore, like she was only half-present in this reality.
"Rainey." Her voice was soft, almost musical. "I felt something dark while I was meditating this morning. A disturbance of some sort. Then your name came to me." Her gaze landed on the roses, and her expression shifted. "Oh. There it is."
Laurel had always been odd, even as a child.
While the rest of us struggled through Charlotte's Web in third grade, Laurel read thick volumes with titles I couldn't pronounce.
Her reading skills were so advanced that our teacher had created a special "Purple Reading Group"—which consisted of only Laurel.
No surprise she'd ended up as the town librarian.
By junior year, she'd moved on to crystal jewelry and tarot card readings, charging classmates five dollars for a glimpse at their futures.
I'd never believed in fortune-telling, but everyone in Midnight Springs agreed Laurel Hayes was eccentric.
She crossed to the counter, reached out, and touched the long antique mirror I kept propped against the wall—a beautiful piece from the 1880s with an ornate gilded frame. The moment her fingers made contact, her whole body went rigid.
"Laurel?" My breath stuck in my throat. "Are you okay?"
Her eyes rolled back. When she spoke, her voice had changed—deeper, more resonant. "The veil grows thin. October's power builds. Betrayal wears a familiar face. Someone close to you seeks to harm."
Cold swept through me.
Then she blinked, stumbled back, and was Laurel again—dazed and slightly confused. "Did I do the thing? I did the thing, didn't I? I hate when I do the thing."
"You did the thing," I confirmed, trying to make it sound casual even though my pulse was racing. "’Betrayal wears a familiar face.’ Any idea what that means?"
"No idea. It just comes through me." She pushed her glasses up her nose with a finger and eyed the flowers warily. "But those are definitely bad news. You should burn them. Cleanse the energy."
Before I could respond, she drifted toward the door, seeming still a bit dazed. "Be careful tonight, Rainey. The theater holds many secrets."
After she left, Ellie and I looked at each other.
"Your life has gotten very weird very fast," Ellie observed.
"Tell me about it."
BY EVENING, I'D ALMOST convinced myself the gothic bouquet and note were a twisted Halloween prank. Almost.
The walk to the theater took ten minutes through the cooling October dusk. Fog drifted up from Caddo Lake, blurring the edges of the square and softening the streetlights into halos. Midnight Springs always felt dreamlike on nights like this.
Inside, rehearsal was about to begin. Vivian stood center stage with her script, calling out last-minute notes to the scattered cast.
Then I saw Ransom.
My breath caught. I forced myself to keep walking, to look casual, even as my pulse hammered and heat crept up my neck.
He wore jeans and a dark flannel, talking to Vivian near the stage steps. I walked past him without making eye contact, focusing on the director instead.
Get it together, Rainey.
"There she is!" Vivian clapped her hands.
"Perfect. Tonight we're staging the summoning scene.
Laurel, you're the fortune teller trying to contact the spirit world.
Rainey, you're desperate to reach your lost love.
We'll use the Ouija board from your establishment—so glad Rose found one when I sent her the request. And real candles, of course. Authenticity is everything."
Great. Because nothing said "safe working environment" like open flames in a building that was barely code-compliant.
We took our positions. Vivian had set up a small table center stage with Laurel's crystal ball and the antique Ouija board I hadn’t even been aware we carried. Tall tapers ringed the space, their flames casting dancing shadows across the old velvet curtains.
"Remember," Vivian called from her seat in the third row, "Evangeline is consumed by grief. She can't move on. She needs to know why Silas left her, why he died. Channel that desperation."
Desperation. Yes. I could do desperation. Especially since I was currently desperate for the leading man to stop looking at me like he wanted to devour me whole.
Laurel sat at the table, her hands hovering over the crystal ball. In costume—layers of scarves and dark fabrics—she looked like an actual Victorian-era psychic. "Close your eyes, my dear. Open your heart to what lies beyond the veil. Let the ghosts of the past come forth."
I did as she said, trying to sink into Evangeline's grief. The candle smoke created shapes in the darkness behind my eyelids. The theater creaked and I heard footsteps far off.
Then the power cut out.
Total darkness. Not even the emergency lights clicked on.
My pulse kicked hard and my eyes flew open.
"Everyone stay calm," Vivian called. "Probably just a breaker. Mason, can you—"
"Rainey." The whisper came from everywhere and nowhere. Soft. Sinister. I couldn't identify the voice.
I went cold.
Then the flood lights flickered back on, harsh and sudden after the darkness.
And there, across the long antique standing mirror we'd brought for one of the saloon scenes, scrawled in what looked like red lipstick: BELL - LEAVE THIS STAGE OR ELSE.
The theater erupted into chaos. People talking over each other, Vivian demanding to know what happened, Darcy filming everything from the lighting booth with her phone.
I froze, staring at the message, at the red smears that looked too much like blood, at the violation of it all.
Then Ransom was there.
He vaulted onto the stage in one smooth motion, his body positioning itself between me and the rest of the theater. His hand found my arm, warm and solid and real.
"You okay?" His voice was low, just for me.
I should've pulled away, told him I was fine, I didn't need protecting, I could handle this myself.
But I didn't pull away.
"Yeah," I managed. "Spooked."
"Someone's trying to scare you." His jaw was tight, barely controlled anger in every line of his body. "This isn't random."
"No kidding."
He slid his touch down my arm, fingers wrapping around mine. The touch sent electricity through me—unwanted, yet undeniable. This was the problem. Every time he touched me, every time his gaze met mine, heat that made my stomach flip—I forgot why I was supposed to hate him.
Was this real? This pull between us? Or was I so deep in Evangeline's headspace, so consumed by playing a woman who couldn't let go of her lost love, that I was confusing fiction with reality?
"I need to know you're safe," Ransom continued, his thumb stroking the inside of my wrist. "Let me drive you home tonight."
"I can walk. I always walk."
"Not tonight you don't."
Vivian climbed onto the stage, examining the mirror.
"We need to figure out who did this. This is sabotage.
This is—" She turned to face the cast, her red hair practically standing on end with indignation.
"This is unacceptable! But you know what?
We're not going to let some coward ruin our production.
" She straightened, channeling every ounce of her Broadway past. "The show must go on.
We continue rehearsal. We shall not be deterred!
Tomorrow I will contact the authorities. Tonight, we work."
A murmur went through the cast—some agreement, some uncertainty. Brooke waited in the wings, her mouth set in a grim line. Darcy lowered her phone, biting her lip.
Ransom still held my hand. I should've let go. Instead, I held tighter.
"From the top," Vivian commanded. "And this time, let's remember we're artists, not victims. We create magic. We don't let fear win."
The rehearsal continued, but my focus scattered. Ransom's presence dominated my awareness—the way he moved through the shadows in his ghost costume, the white makeup making his features stark and dangerous. The way he watched me, protective and predatory all at once.
During a break, he found me by the prop room. "Rainey—"
"Don't." I held up a hand. "Don't ask if I'm okay again. Don't offer to protect me. Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you still care."
The words hung between us. He stepped closer, crowding into my space in a way that should've made me uncomfortable but instead made me ache.
"I never stopped caring," he said quietly. "Not for one single day in five years."
This close, I could smell him—soap and something earthy, masculine. I could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the stubble along his jaw, the thin scar on his forearm from that rodeo injury.
This close, I wanted things I had no right wanting from a man who'd shattered me.
"You don't get to say that," I whispered. "You don't get to come back and just—"
"I know." His hand came up, cupping my cheek. "I know I don't. But I'm saying it anyway."
The world narrowed to this moment and my breath hitched. If he kissed me right now, I wouldn't stop him. If he pushed me against the wall and took what he wanted, I'd help him.
God, I'd beg for it.
"Places!" The director’s voice shattered the moment. "Let's run the finale!"
Ransom stepped back, but his eyes promised this wasn't over.
I went back to my mark on unsteady legs, my body wound tight with want, my mind spinning. Was I losing myself in Evangeline's story? Was this yearning to be touched, to be wanted, just an echo of my character's grief?
Or was it simpler than that—was I still completely, stupidly in love with Ransom Hollis, and terrified of what that meant if he was really staying this time?
Either way, I was in serious trouble.
The kind of trouble that ended with me either getting my heart broken again or completely consumed by the man who'd once been my everything.
And standing there, surrounded by shadows and smoke and the ghosts of who we used to be, I wasn't entirely sure which outcome scared me more.