December 7, Saturday

THE LATE afternoon sun painted long shadows across the graveyard as I watched Sawyer work, his movements precise and patient as he reset another stone in the labyrinth pattern in the ground at the entrance to the graveyard. Sweat gleamed on his forearms despite the December chill.

"Last one for today," he said, carefully settling the weathered stone into its new bed of cement. "The path is starting to take shape."

I walked the emerging pattern, following the twists and turns that would eventually lead to the center. "It's beautiful. How did you figure out where each stone belonged?"

"Rose helped me," he said softly. "She was fascinated by the labyrinth, spent hours trying to reconstruct the original pattern on paper."

The sun dipped lower, sending streaks of amber and rose across the sky. Sawyer gathered his tools, then held out his hand. "Ready to head back?"

I laced my fingers through his, savoring the warmth of his calloused palm against mine. The short drive back to Whisper House was quiet, both of us lost in thought.

"Does it bother you?" I asked finally. "That Rose's casket hasn't been found?"

He let out a long breath. "I think about it all the time. What kind of person steals a casket? With a body inside?" His hands tightened on the steering wheel. "It's sick."

I voiced a thought that had been nagging at me. "What if it's in the old funeral home?"

Sawyer hit the brakes, the truck lurching to a stop. "What?"

"The Whittam place. It's been empty since the owner died, right? Kelly has a key – she maintains the property for her uncle. We walked inside once, but we didn't really look around."

"It would be the perfect hiding place," he conceded.

"We could ask Kelly for the key," I suggested. "Check it out tomorrow?"

"Sounds good." His eyes darkened as he pulled into my driveway. "I have other plans for tonight."

Before I could respond, he was out of the truck and opening my door, pulling me into his arms. His kiss was urgent, hungry, making my knees weak. I tried to ignore the nagging thought that every time we talked about Rose, Sawyer reached for me—to distract himself?

"Shower first," I managed between kisses. "We're both covered in graveyard grime."

His laugh rumbled against my throat. "I like the way you think."

We barely made it inside, leaving a trail of dusty clothes from the front door to the bathroom. Steam filled the air as hot water chased away the December chill, but it was Sawyer's hands that warmed me, his touch igniting something deep inside that felt very much like—dare I say it?

Magic.