The snow thickened, flakes drifting down, beginning to blur the edges of the cemetery.
Sara straightened, wiped her cheek with the back of her glove, half-laughing, half-sighing.
She smiled faintly.
“I’ll go,” she said. “But I’ll come back.”
She took one step away, then paused.
The wind tugged at her hair. Somewhere down the hill, a car engine idled softly.
“I’m going to be okay,” she said, not sure if she was telling Lauren or herself. “I don’t feel it yet. Not all the way. But I think it’s coming.”
Her gaze drifted past the rows of stones, out toward the road, the tree line, the faint glow of patrol car lights parked where the cemetery drive met the street.
“Besides,” she added, “apparently I’ve got a shadow now.”
She didn’t wave. Didn’t acknowledge. Only turned and walked back the way she’d come, boots crunching, snow swallowing the sound.
Behind her, the white rose slowly collected flakes.
Deputy Luke Hale — Watch
Luke Hale shouldn’t have been here.
He knew it.
The engine of his cruiser idled low, heater ticking against the cold as he watched through the windshield. Wipers squeaked once, clearing a thin veil of snow.
He’d told himself he’d swing by Fairview Memorial Gardens on patrol. Just in case. To make sure no one bothered the fresh graves. To?—
He exhaled.
To make sure she wasn’t alone.
Sara Parker had insisted she was fine when she’d left the office. She’d said she just needed a walk, some air, time to think.
He’d nodded, said all the right things. Watched her drive away.
And then, fifteen minutes later, he was here. Parked under a bare oak across from the cemetery entrance, lights off, pretending this was normal.
Out in the snow, he saw her step back from Lauren Pierce’s stone.
She was a small figure from this distance. Dark coat. Her face, he couldn’t quite make out. But he didn’t need details to read the set of her shoulders.
He watched her bend, lay something at the base of the headstone—a flash of white against gray. A rose, maybe.
He’d brought flowers to graves before. Parents. Victims. A partner he’d lost early in his career. But he’d never thought he’d care this much about whether someone had someone standing in the shadows when they did it.
“Yeah,” he muttered. “Looks like you’ve got one.”
She straightened. Stood there for a long moment, head bowed.
He stayed in the car.
He knew enough about trauma to understand that some battles had to be fought alone—but that didn’t mean you had to be unguarded while you fought them.
When she finally turned and walked back toward the gate, he slouched a little lower in his seat on instinct—not wanting her to see him, not wanting to explain why he was there when he didn’t fully understand it himself.
