Every instinct in my body tells me not to, but something stronger pushes through, something that refuses to let me turn away now that I’ve already seen this much. I tear at the brownpaper, my movements quicker than they should be, less controlled, until it falls away to reveal what lies beneath.
A thin slab of polished marble.
For a moment, my mind refuses to process it, refuses to assign meaning, but then I see it, carved cleanly into the surface in elegant, unmistakable script.
McCullough McMaster.
My name.
Beneath it, my date of birth.
And beneath that, a second date.
A date that hasn’t happened yet.
A date that is coming.
My knees give slightly, and I stumble back, the slab slipping from my grasp and striking the floor with a heavy, final sound that echoes through the house. The air feels suddenly thinner, harder to draw in, and I press a hand to my chest as if I can steady the frantic rhythm there, but it does nothing to slow it.
This isn’t a warning.
It isn’t a joke.
It’s something far more precise than that.
A countdown.
Someone knows.
Not just who I am, not just where I live, but what happened, what we did, what we buried and chose never to name again. They know, and they have decided that whatever time I thought I had left is already running out.
I force myself to move, to do something other than stand there and let the realization settle into me. My phone is in the kitchen, and I cross the distance quickly, my fingers already trembling as I grab it from the counter and pull up Bennett’s number.
It rings longer than it should.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Each second stretches, tightening the pressure in my chest until finally his voice comes through, steady and unaware.
“McCullough? What’s wrong?”
“They sent me a gravestone,” I say, the words coming out sharper than I intend, my voice catching despite my effort to control it. “And a funeral wreath. There’s a note, Bennett. It says my time is up. This isn’t a prank. Someone is threatening me.”
There is a pause, brief but noticeable, and when he speaks again his tone has changed, sharpened with something more alert, more focused.
“Where are you right now?”
“At home,” I say, pacing now without realizing it, my free hand gripping the edge of the counter as if it might steady me. “But I don’t feel safe. Whoever sent this knows about that night. They have to.”
“Listen to me carefully,” he says, his voice firm enough that I stop moving, if only for a moment. “Lock every door and window. Do not open the door for anyone. I’m leaving now, I’ll be there in twenty minutes. And call the police. Right now.”
The word lingers between us.
Police.
