Eleanor stepped inside, her eyes falling briefly on the silver frame on her desk—a photo of her at twenty-six, beaming beside her father in the marble lobby of his Charleston firm. They had been so proud that day. Two generations of Harpers on the same letterhead, both certain the world would always make sense.
Now, that same name was a hashtag.
She picked up the receiver.
“Hi, Mom.”
A sharp inhale on the other end.
“Elizabeth Eleanor Harper,” her mother said crisply, “why is my bridge group texting me about you?”
5
Eleanor’s House
By Friday, Sylva had leaned all the way in.
Banners fluttered across Main Street. MYSTERY MOUNTAIN WEEK: Vanished in the Valley. Ghost tours, “last known sighting” walks, pop-up booths selling haunted mountain merch—every scrap of old folklore had been rewired to fit the disappearances.
Tourists lingered on courthouse steps, taking photos where Lauren Pierce had once walked and where Sara Parker had been found.
The spotlight had settled. And it wasn’t leaving.
That evening, Eleanor shut off the treadmill and stepped into the quiet of her house. The dogwood in her front yard had bloomed fully now, white petals luminous against the darkening sky. Gas lanterns flickered on either side of the porch, warm and steady—the white brick ranch glowing like a Lowcountry ghost.
People liked to say Charleston had followed her to the mountains.
She hadn’t corrected them.
The doorbell rang.
She checked the time.
Deck. Of course.
She didn’t look through the peephole.
Sweat still damp on her skin, she crossed the living room, muscles pleasantly loose from the run, hair down, black sports bra and charcoal leggings clinging to a deep, healthy pink bloom along her shoulders and throat.
She opened the door.
And stopped.
Reid Calloway stood on her porch.
Dark hair pushed back carelessly, sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie loosened, jacket gone. He looked less like a District Attorney and more like trouble.
His eyes didn’t just meet hers; they swept down—a slow, weighted pass that tracked the sheen of sweat at her collarbone, the bare strip of skin above her waistband, the curve of her waist—before snapping back to her face.
A quick, sharp flicker of awareness flared in his pupils.
He covered it fast.
Too late.
The air between them had already thickened, smelling of his expensive, woodsy cologne.
Heat climbed her throat. For the first time since opening the door, she became acutely aware of exactly how little she was wearing. Every inch of exposed skin felt suddenly too exposed. She curled her fingers around the edge of the door, resisting the instinct to reach for a hoodie.
