October 5, Saturday

THE CRISP autumn air nipped at my fingers as I scribbled in my notebook, perched on the now-familiar concrete bench in the Whisper Graveyard, covered with a blanket. I was supposed to be working on my manuscript, but my attention kept wandering to the muscled form of Sawyer as he labored over a damaged headstone.

His strong hands moved with surprising gentleness, piecing together the shattered marble like a jigsaw puzzle. A bead of sweat trickled down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his worn flannel shirt. I found myself imagining tracing its path with my fingertips, remembering the feel of his skin against mine from our night together.

I shook my head, trying to banish the distracting thoughts. This was neither the time nor the place for such musings. Besides, Sawyer seemed a million miles away.

Every few minutes, his gaze would drift to Rose's disturbed grave, his brow furrowing with an emotion I couldn't quite read. Was it guilt? Sorrow? Or something deeper, more complex?

I wanted to ask him about it, to bridge the silence that had grown between us since that stormy night. But the words stuck in my throat. How could I bring up our intimate encounter when we were surrounded by such stark reminders of death and loss?

So instead, we both retreated into our own thoughts, the only sounds the scratch of my pen and the scrape of Sawyer's tools against stone.

My heroine, Lady Amelia, stared up at me from the page, her fictional problems suddenly seeming trivial compared to the real-life mystery surrounding us. How could I focus on crafting the perfect romance when there was an empty grave just yards away?

I sighed, closing my notebook. "Any progress?" I called out, more to break the silence than out of genuine curiosity.

Sawyer looked up, seeming almost startled by my voice. "Hm? Oh, yeah. Should have this one fixed up good as new by sundown."

From my seat, I could see the name on the headstone. Earl Maxwell, Jr., US Army. He had died in 1968 at the age of nineteen. I did the math—Vietnam. A pang of sadness struck me. "I'm sure the family will appreciate it."

"Maybe," he said with a shrug. "If they ever come to visit."

There was a bitterness in his tone that surprised me. "Do you know them? The family, I mean."

"Used to," he replied, turning back to his work. "But grief does funny things to people. Sometimes it's easier to stay away, I guess."

I thought of my own reasons for coming to Irving, of the scandals and heartaches I'd been trying to outrun. "Yeah," I murmured. "I guess it is."

Sawyer's hands stilled, and for a moment, I thought he might say more. But then he shook his head slightly and resumed his methodical repair work.

We lapsed back into silence, each of us lost in our own private burdens. The weight of unspoken words hung heavy in the air between us, as tangible as the autumn mist that clung to the headstones.

I found myself wondering about the stories buried here, not just in the graves but in the very soil of this place. How many of the graveyard's secrets were tangled up with the strange events unfolding around us?

As the sun began to dip towards the horizon, painting the cemetery in shades of gold and amber, I realized we'd barely spoken all day. Yet somehow, I felt closer to Sawyer than ever. There was a comfort in this shared silence, in the knowledge that we were both grappling with things beyond our understanding.

I stood, stretching my stiff muscles. "I should head back to the house," I said softly. "I need to feed the chickens… and Satan."

Sawyer nodded, not looking up from his work. "I want to finish this up."

As I walked away, I glanced back over my shoulder. Sawyer had paused in his task, his gaze once again fixed on Rose's empty grave. The fading sunlight cast long shadows across his face, highlighting the weariness in his features.

In that moment, he looked every bit as haunted as the graveyard around him.