November 2, Saturday

brIGHT PAPER flowers and colorful sugar skulls decorated every storefront in downtown Irving. The scent of churros and spiced hot chocolate filled the air as children dashed by with painted faces, their parents trailing behind with indulgent smiles.

I hadn't planned on attending Irving's Day of the Dead parade, but Kelly had insisted, even helping me paint delicate flowers around my eyes and lending me a flowing black dress embroidered with marigolds.

"There's Dora!" Kelly pointed to where Franny's daughter danced with the Benson twins, all three wearing matching flower crowns. Their skirts swirled as they spun, bangles jingling in time with the mariachi band.

"They seem... happy," I said, surprised by the genuine smiles on the twins' usually serious faces.

"Everyone's happy today," Kelly said, pulling me toward a booth selling papel picado. "It's a time to remember our loved ones who have passed and celebrate their lives."

Still, it felt strange to me that people here were so comfortable with death and dying and the spaces in between.

Frannie and Tilda Benson stood together at a face-painting station, helping small children choose designs. They worked in comfortable silence, their usual tension notably absent.

We stopped in front of an altar someone had made for Wayne Blakemore, whose ashes had been scattered over Whisper Graveyard. He smiled back from a photograph taken during my booksigning, unaware how little time he had left on earth. My heart squeezed for him, and I felt guilty for not being more generous with my time. I also wondered how many in town knew his death in the hospital from a heart attack had been categorized as "suspicious" by the Birmingham Medical Examiner and being investigated as a possible homicide. Detective Jack Terry hadn't shared all the details, but had taken Wayne's manuscript about the witches' feud with him to read in case it revealed a possible motive.

"It's like the whole town needed this," Kelly mused. "A reminder that death isn't always scary—sometimes it's just a doorway to another place."

I was pondering her unexpectedly profound observation when I spotted Sawyer. He stood across the street, looking unfairly handsome in a black shirt with a white skeleton design. But he wasn't alone.

A sophisticated-looking couple flanked him, the woman gesturing enthusiastically while the man nodded along. Even from this distance, I could tell they were from the city—their clothes were too polished, their postures too rigid for small-town Alabama.

"Customers from Atlanta," Kelly supplied, following my gaze. "They want him to design some fancy metal gate for their garden."

My heart did a familiar flutter as Sawyer's eyes met mine across the crowd. He gave a small wave, then gestured apologetically to his clients.

I waved back, trying to ignore the questions burning in my throat. Was Edra right? Was he really a Whisper? A warlock? The illegitimate heir to a magical legacy?

"Earth to Josephine," Kelly sang, waving a paper flower in front of my face. "Stop mooning over the hot stonemason and help me choose decorations for my uncle's wheelchair."

I laughed, letting Kelly pull me back into the festivities. We sampled traditional pan de muerto, admired the elaborate altars with photographs and candles set up along Main Street, and watched children chase each other with plastic marigold petals.

As dusk fell, the crowd gathered for the parade's finale. Paper lanterns cast a warm glow over the street as dancers in skeleton costumes twirled past. Musicians played haunting melodies that seemed to bridge the gap between this world and the next.

I found myself swaying to the music, caught up in the joyful celebration of life, death, and everything in between. For a moment, all the complications in my life—the manuscript deadline, Curtis's threats, Sawyer's secrets—felt distant and manageable.

Then I felt his presence behind me, that familiar electricity crackling between us.

"I'm missing you." Sawyer's voice was low, meant only for me.

I turned, but he was already moving away, his clients beckoning him toward a coffee shop.

As the parade wound down, the questions in my heart continued to dance.