September 2, Monday

I STARED at Detective Jack Terry's business card and rubbed my thumb over his direct line at the Atlanta Police Department, then looked back to the cracked headstone marking Serena Benson's grave. The cool breeze rustling through the trees felt ominous, as if the graveyard itself was holding its breath. I'd promised to call if anything "odd" happened concerning Serena's grave. And mass vandalism certainly qualified as odd.

With a deep breath, I hit dial.

"Detective Terry." His voice was gruff, as if he'd just woken up. I realized with a start it was Labor Day, so he was probably off for the holiday.

"Hi, this is Josephine Vanguard. We met at the Whisper Graveyard in Irving, Alabama?"

A pause, then a rustle. "Right." His voice was lowered. "The caretaker. What can I do for you, Ms. Vanguard?"

I swallowed hard. "You asked me to call if anything strange happened around Serena's grave. Well, something did."

"I'm listening." His tone sharpened, all traces of sleep gone.

I recounted the vandalism, describing the spray paint and broken headstones. "Serena's grave wasn't specifically targeted," I added. "But it was damaged along with the others."

"Sounds like a mess. Any leads on who did it?"

"Not really. There's some tension between the local church and... other groups in town. But nothing concrete."

"Other groups?" He latched onto my hesitation. "What aren't you telling me, Ms. Vanguard?"

I bit my lip. How much should I reveal about Irving's magical undercurrents? "It's complicated. There are some... alternative spiritual practices in the area. It causes friction sometimes."

"Alternative spiritual practices," he repeated flatly. "You mean like the witchcraft rumors that were floating around when Serena died?"

My eyebrows shot up. "You knew about that?"

A heavy sigh crackled through the line. "I knew a lot of things about Irving that didn't make it into the official report. Politics and superstition make for a nasty combination."

I thought about Tilda's accusation towards the reverend and his congregation. "You're not wrong there."

"Ms. Vanguard, I need you to be straight with me. Is there anything else going on that I should know about?"

Images flashed through my mind: the Wiccan gatherings, the dislodged granite slab, the whispers of curses and feuds. But how much was real, and how much was small-town gossip run amok?

"I'm... not sure," I said finally. "There are a lot of rumors, but I don't know what's true."

"Fair enough." He paused, and I could almost hear the gears turning in his head. "I think I need to come down there and take a look for myself."

"When were you thinking of coming?"

"I can be there Wednesday afternoon. That work for you?"

"Um, sure. That's fine."

"Great. I'll text this number when I'm close. And Ms. Vanguard? Keep your eyes open. If there's more going on in Irving than meets the eye, you might be in a unique position to see it."

We said our goodbyes, and I lowered the phone. A movement caught my eye, and I turned to see Sawyer approaching from the direction of the graveyard. He must've come to start repairs while I was on the phone.

"Everything okay?" he asked, brow furrowed in concern.

I forced a smile. "Just peachy." I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd just opened a very large can of worms. One that might end up spilling secrets all over Irving—magical and otherwise.