September 30, Monday

THE INSISTENT crow of the rooster pierced through my dreams, dragging me back to consciousness. I blinked awake, momentarily disoriented by the warm presence of Sawyer beside me. Then I registered the flapping of wings and realized the rooster's call was coming from inside the room.

"What the—" Sawyer bolted upright, his eyes wide as he took in the sight of the black rooster strutting across the dresser.

I followed his gaze and gasped. A large tree limb had punched through the ceiling, leaving a gaping hole where rain and leaves had invaded during the night.

"The storm," I breathed, memories of the howling wind flooding back.

We dressed quickly and made our way downstairs, surveying the damage. The Whisper House had weathered the tempest, but not without casualties. Branches and debris littered the yard, and several trees had been uprooted entirely.

"The animals," I suddenly remembered, dashing towards the chicken coop with Sawyer on my heels.

To our relief, the coop was still standing, though worse for wear. The chickens clucked nervously as we approached, but all seemed accounted for. Even Satan the goat had survived, though he bleated indignantly at us from his rain-soaked pen.

"We should check the graveyard," Sawyer said, his face grim.

The path to the cemetery was barely recognizable, strewn with fallen branches and debris. But nothing could have prepared us for the sight that greeted us at Rose's grave.

The massive oak tree that had stood sentinel over her final resting place now lay on its side, its vast root system exposed to the sky like grasping fingers. But it was what the tree had revealed that made my blood run cold.

Rose's cement casket vault had been pushed to the surface, the sheer force of the uprooted tree breaking nature's symmetry. It sat at an awkward angle, its lid partially dislodged.

And it was empty.

"Oh my God," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart.

Sawyer stood frozen, his face ashen. "This isn't possible," he muttered, shaking his head in denial.

I approached the vault cautiously, as if it might suddenly come to life. The inside was pristine, showing no... inhabitants. It looked for all the world like it had never been used.

"Sawyer," I said, my voice shaking, "where is she?"

He didn't answer, his eyes fixed on the empty vault.

A chill ran down my spine as another possibility occurred to me. "What if... what if she was never in there to begin with?"

His head came up, eyes blazing. "That's not possible."

I nodded, trying to calm my racing thoughts. "What do we do now?"

Sawyer ran a hand through his hair, looking lost. "Call the police, I guess. They'll want to investigate."

As if on cue, we heard the distant wail of sirens. Had someone noticed the disturbed grave?

"Josephine," Sawyer said, his voice low and urgent. "Whatever happens next, whatever they find... I need you to trust me. Can you do that?"

I wanted to say yes. After last night, after everything we'd shared, I wanted to believe in him completely. But as I looked at the empty vault, at the secrets literally unearthed before us, I wasn't sure of anything anymore.

"I'll try," I said finally, and hoped it would be enough.

As the sirens grew closer, we stood vigil over Rose's empty grave, the upended tree a stark reminder that in Irving, even the dead didn't rest easy.

*****