November 4, Monday

" SO LET me get this straight," Frida's voice crackled through my AirPods as I carefully reached under Butterscotch for her eggs. "Your hot stonemason is actually the secret love child of some rich family's black sheep uncle and their maid?"

"Ow!" I yanked my hand back as Butterscotch delivered her usual love peck. "That's the gist of it."

"Girl, that is some straight-up Jane Austen meets Downton Abbey meets... I don't know, American Gothic realness."

I laughed and the sound startled the chickens. "Only you could make my complicated love life sound like a PBS lineup."

"So has finding out the man has witch blood made him any more spectacular in the bedroom department?"

"Frida!" My cheeks flamed as I filled my basket with eggs. "I'm not discussing that while I'm collecting breakfast."

"Fine, but please tell me you at least asked him if his magical abilities extend to other areas?"

"He claims magic doesn't exist."

"Uh-huh. And that kiss he used to distract you from asking more questions? Was that magical?"

I smiled. "Maybe a little."

Satan the goat bleated impatiently from his pen, reminding me he was waiting for breakfast. I made my way over, hefting a bag of feed.

"You know what's really wild?" I said, pouring feed into Satan's trough. "This isn't even the craziest thing happening in Irving right now. We've still got an empty grave and a possibly murdered bookstore owner."

"And you thought Alabama would be boring. But seriously, Jo, are you okay with all this? Finding out Sawyer's been keeping such a huge secret?"

I watched Satan methodically demolish his breakfast while I considered the question. "I think I understand why he kept it quiet. And I haven't exactly been forthcoming about all the details of my life."

"You mean like the curse you put on Curtis?"

"Exactly. Although that reminds me—I need to check if the stronger version has kicked in yet."

"Girl, you're out there living your best witch life, falling for a mysterious man, and investigating small-town murders. Meanwhile, your deadline is when?"

I groaned. "Soon. I'd really love to get the book in early."

"Better hope your sexy stonemason doesn't distract you too much with his magic wand."

I laughed. "I'm hanging up now."

Her laughter echoed in my ears as I ended the call. As I walked back to the Whisper House, I looked around at my strange new life—the ancient house, the misty graveyard in the distance, Satan contentedly munching his breakfast while the chickens clucked away.

If someone had told me six months ago that I'd be living in rural Alabama, caring for farm animals and possibly dating a warlock, I would've thought they were certifiable.

But here I was, and surprisingly, I wasn't unhappy.

Well, except for that pesky deadline.

"Time to tie things up," I muttered, trudging toward my bedroom desk.

In truth, I was a little reluctant to write the spectacular ending I'd planned because it meant being done . And I'd always struggled with ending things—on paper and in real life.