December 13, Friday

I WAS raking leaves from around the headstones when the crunch of tires on gravel announced a visitor. A familiar red convertible pulled up to the gate, and Rainie Stephens emerged, her vibrant hair clashing magnificently with her designer coat.

"Just the person I was hoping to find," she called out, picking her way through the cemetery in impractical heels. "Got a minute?"

I leaned on my rake, already wary. "I'm kind of busy."

"This won't take long." She pulled out a recorder. "I'm running a story on the... unusual events that have occurred in Irving recently. The vandalism, Wayne Blakemore's murder, your near-death experience..." Her smile was razor-sharp. "All with a witchcraft angle. It's quite the tale."

"Sounds like it," I offered in a non-committal tone.

"And it gets better – a true-crime podcast wants to do a series. They're very interested in your perspective as the outsider who stumbled into small-town corruption and ancient family feuds." She named a figure that made my eyes widen. "That's just for the initial interviews. Could be more if it takes off."

I stared at the rake in my hands, thinking of Curtis's demands, of my dwindling bank account. I'd be leaving Irving soon anyway. What did it matter if the town's secrets were exposed?

But then I thought of Kelly's friendship, of Coleman's quiet kindness. Of Tilda's grief over her daughters, and Franny's hopes for healing the coven. Of Reverend Abernathy protecting Rose's final wishes. Of Sawyer...

"I'm sorry," I said finally. "I can't help you."

Rainie's smile dimmed. "Come on, Josephine. You're a writer. You know a good story when you see one. Small southern town with actual witches? Teenage killers caught up in dark magic? A romance novelist nearly buried alive?" She gestured around the graveyard. "This place is a gold mine."

"It's also someone's home," I said quietly. "These are real people, not characters in one of my books."

"People who tried to kill you."

"And people who saved me. Who took me in when I was running away from my own problems."

She rolled her eyes. "Now you sound like one of them."

"Maybe I am." I straightened, squaring my shoulders. "Look, I can't stop you from writing your story. But I won't help you sensationalize this town's pain. They deserve better."

She tucked away her recorder. "The story's running next week, with or without your input."

"Without," I confirmed.

She gave me a conciliatory nod, then backtracked to her car. I watched her drive away, red taillights disappearing down the rutted road. The temperature was dropping, and I shivered in my coat.

Turning back to my rake, I cast a glance at Rose's empty grave, now covered with two pieces of heavy plywood, and her headstone.

"You're welcome," I whispered.

Some stories weren't meant to be told.

Besides, I had my own story to finish. One about a woman who came to a small town looking for escape and found something else entirely.

Something real. Something worth protecting.

Even if it meant walking away from a perfectly good plot twist.