The morning settles over the house with an eerie kind of calm, the air thick with a silence that feels almost deliberate, as if the world itself is holding its breath. I sit on the back patio with one of Whitney’s journals open across my lap, a pineapple mimosa sweating lightly in my hand as condensation slips down the glass and dampens my fingers. Sunlight filters through the magnolia trees overhead, casting soft, shifting patterns across the worn pages, but the words refuse to hold my attention for long.
Her journals have become something I can’t quite name, both a lifeline and a quiet form of torture. Every entry feels like a breadcrumb, something small and deliberate left behind to guide me toward the truth, and yet the more I read, the more it becomes clear how much I still don’t understand. I am close to something, I can feel it, but not close enough to see the full shape of it.
I turn the page, Whitney’s neat, careful handwriting filling the lines in a way that feels almost too composed for what I know now lived beneath the surface, but before I can focus onthe next entry, a sharp knock at the front door cuts through the quiet and pulls me abruptly from my thoughts.
I freeze.
It’s early for visitors, and Bennett isn’t home.
The knock comes again, firmer this time, and the sound travels through the house in a way that feels louder than it should, echoing faintly against the walls. I set the journal aside and stand, the cool stone beneath my bare feet grounding me as I move through the house, though the hollow rhythm of each step only seems to amplify the tension coiling slowly in my chest.
When I reach the door, I pause just long enough to glance through the peephole. A man stands on the other side, his posture relaxed, a clipboard tucked beneath his arm. A delivery driver, I realize, though the sight of him does little to ease the unease settling deeper in my stomach.
I open the door carefully, forcing my shoulders to relax as he offers a polite, practiced smile, the kind that suggests this interaction means nothing to him at all.
“Delivery for McCullough McMaster?” he asks, holding out a large, flat package wrapped in brown paper along with a separate item, a wreath sealed in clear cellophane.
“Yes,” I say, stepping forward to take them, though my hands are not as steady as I would like. “That’s me.”
The weight of the package surprises me as I shift it against my hip, and I sign where he indicates, my signature coming out slightly uneven.
“Do you know who sent this?” I ask, keeping my voice even.
He shakes his head. “No, ma’am. Came through the hub this morning. No return address.”
Of course it didn’t.
“Thank you,” I manage, and he nods once before turning back toward his van, already moving on to whatever comes next.
I close the door and stand there for a moment, the silence rushing back in around me, heavier now than it was before. The wreath rests awkwardly against my arm, and that’s when I notice the scent, faint but unmistakable, something sweet and cloying that turns my stomach almost instantly.
Funeral flowers.
My pulse quickens as I carry both items into the entryway and set them carefully on the table, my gaze drawn immediately to the wreath. Black lilies are woven tightly into the arrangement, their dark petals almost glossy beneath the plastic wrap, and nestled among them is a small white card.
I reach for it before I can stop myself.
The handwriting is bold, slanted, deliberate, the ink thick enough to look almost like paint.
15 years ago today.
The words seem to settle into the room, heavier than they should be, and for a moment I can’t move, can’t think, can only stare as the meaning begins to surface.
Fifteen years.
The debutante ball.
The night everything shifted, whether we acknowledged it or not.
My fingers tighten slightly around the card as I force myself to read the next line.
Your time is up.
The breath leaves my body in a sharp, unsteady exhale, and the card slips from my fingers, drifting to the floor in a way that feels almost slow, almost deliberate.
My attention shifts to the package.
I don’t want to open it.
