November 14, Thursday

THE GENTLE rasp of sandpaper against wood filled Rose's workshop as I worked on the rocking chair. The repetitive motion was soothing, helping to quiet my guilt over betraying Sawyer's confidence to Detective Terry.

A floorboard creaked somewhere in the house.

I froze, the sandpaper block hovering mid-stroke. Satan was in his pen, the chickens in their coop. Kelly wasn't due until tomorrow.

Another creak, closer this time.

"Hello?" I called out, my voice hoarse and shaky. "Is someone there?"

Silence answered, but it felt... watchful.

I set down the sandpaper and crept to the workshop door, my heart hammering against my ribs. The house's ancient floors protested beneath my feet as I emerged into the hallway.

A flash of movement in the staircase above caught my eye—a slender figure with long dark hair disappearing around the corner. The same build as the woman in the photos scattered throughout the house.

"Rose?" I whispered, though it was impossible.

Wasn't it?

Footsteps pattered down the main staircase, followed by the distinct sound of the front door opening and closing. I rushed to the window, prepared to see a woman running away. Instead I saw nothing, no matter what direction I looked.

My heart pounded in my ears. I could scarcely breathe. My phone was in my pocket and Sawyer was just a tap away. He'd come running if I called. But the memory of Detective Terry's suspicious questions about him made my stomach twist.

Instead, I methodically checked every door and window in the house, throwing deadbolts and sliding chains into place.

What was I still doing here? My book was finished, my deadline met. I could be back in Manhattan by tomorrow, dealing with Curtis through lawyers like a normal person instead of putting curses on him. I could be drinking overpriced lattes and dodging tourists in Central Park instead of hiding from ghosts in a haunted house.

Maybe it was time to admit that running away to Alabama hadn't solved my problems.

It had just given me new ones.