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  His expression only darkens all the more. He leans his shoulder against the doorjamb and gives an almost imperceptible nod.

  “Can I ask how old you are?” I say as I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders. “It’s…it’s kind of hard to tell.”

  His eyes jump over to mine once more, disapproval and bad attitude spread all over his face. “Thirty-three.”

  I bite my lower lip and nod, unsure of what to say now. In my family growing up, birthdays were always a big deal, but the look on Sully’s face tells me he’s not too happy about the day.

  “How about I make you a special breakfast?” I ask, because it’s the only thing that comes to mind.

  A little something changes when I say this. A tiny chip in the angry and rough façade. Maybe a little weight lifts from his shoulders.

  “Fine,” he says. No thank you. No show of appreciation. He pulls away from the door and walks past me.

  I follow behind, so very unsure of how to step when it comes to Sully Whitmore. I don’t know what to say, or how bold to be. I’m terrified of the large man who speaks to the dead.

  He takes a look at the clock on the wall, and without a word, steps into the chapel, closing the door most of the way behind him. Just a moment later, hauntingly beautiful notes drift through the air.

  I take my time. Breakfast is a challenge to make in this rudimentary kitchen. Ingredients are varied but the options are an odd selection. I silently wonder where it comes from. If some brave soul dares come into Roselock to deliver food, or if Sully actually leaves the town in quest of modern grocery stores and conveniences.

  Considering the conversation I overheard just minutes ago, I don’t think it’s the latter.

  Fifteen minutes later, I’ve fully enjoyed a masterful concert and concocted a breakfast of scrambled eggs, canned sausages, and apple slices. Balancing the two plates, I walk through the kitchen, into the common room, and push the door to the chapel open with the heel of my foot.

  Sully doesn’t stop playing when I enter, though the way his back stiffens tells me he at least noticed me walk in. I take my place once more on the second row of pews, setting the plates on the wooden bench to my side.

  The song Sully plays is so mournful. It echoes like a lone whisper at the bottom of the darkest lake. Like an ending with no promise of another beginning.

  And indeed, when he reaches the end of it, he does not start another.

  His motions stiff, he turns on the bench, and walks to the first pew, just like he did the other day.

  I hand him his breakfast, which he immediately starts eating.

  I pick up my own plate and stab at a sausage. I take a nibble as I watch him.

  “Why do you not eat more?” he suddenly asks, minutes later. His plate is nearly empty. “Every meal so far, you take two or three bites and that’s it.”

  I look down at my fork and realize I’ve been using it to push the food around on my plate. I look up at Sully, a little surprised by his sudden probing question. “I guess I’ve just been nervous ever since I got here. My appetite isn’t too strong when my nerves get the best of me.”

  He shakes his head, his look deepening. “It can’t just be that. I saw the pictures, Iona. This is obviously habitual.”

  I set my plate down on the bench, my appetite disappearing altogether. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  He looks at me for a moment, as if he’s willing the correct response out of me. But something in his expression breaks, and I see unwilling acceptance fall into place. “Did Jack ever say anything about your weight soon after the two of you started dating?”

  “What?” I balk, my own eyes narrowing. “No, of course not!”

  “Iona,” Sully says, setting his plate aside, fully cleared of all food. “Do you not think you’ve changed? Do you think you look the same as you did eleven months ago?”

  I blink four times fast, shaking my head. Where did this discussion come from?

  “You never eat anything, and the sick thing is that I don’t think you even notice,” Sully says, looking down at my virtually untouched plate. “Go look at those pictures. Tell me you haven’t changed. Tell me it has nothing to do with Jack.”

  “Tell me why you’re so angry it’s your birthday,” I spit back. Aggression and violence spike in my blood. I clench my teeth tightly, my hands rolled into fists. The same anger I felt yesterday when Viola said the things she said.

  Sully is quiet for a long time, staring back at me. It’s a tug of war and it’s clear: neither of us is going to back down and let the other win.

  “Get your boots and a coat on,” he says, standing. He grabs his plate and is gone in a second. Frustrated and annoyed at his constant whiplashing, I take my own plate to the kitchen, where I dump all of the food in the garbage.

  I retrieve my coat and boots and go to where Sully waits for me at the back door. Together, we walk out onto the deck and step down into the grass. Morning mist sits heavy in the air, quickly freezing my lungs and clinging to all the tiny hairs on my face. I shove my hands deep down into my pockets.

  Sully opens the gate to the graveyard, and we wind our way through the different headstones. I realize where we are going when we aim for the back corner of the area.

  His family plot sits there, well taken care of, and fairly full. The name Whitmore is splashed across so many headstones.

  “John, Patrick, Nicholas, Neal, Lee, Steven, and Aaron,” Sully says when he stops where we can see them all. “Do you notice anything peculiar about their headstones?”

  I can only read four of the names, the other headstones too worn to make out. They’re all in various stages of antiquity, with John’s being the most weatherworn, and Aaron’s looking the newest. Their death years reveal Sully listed them off in order.

  I shrug my shoulders, shaking my head. “Not really. I assume these are your relatives.”

  “My father,” he says, pointing to Aaron’s headstone. “My grandfather.” Steven. “His father, and his father before him.”

  “John founded Roselock.” I state the fact that I read.

  Sully nods his head, though my statement seems to have nothing to do with the point he’s getting at. “Simple math, Iona. Look at their birth and death dates.” His voice grows harder as the day grows fractionally lighter as dawn breaks. “Simple math.”

  I look at the dates on his father’s headstone first. Born September fourth and died December seventh. At the age of thirty-three.

  Steven was thirty-three, as well.

  My eyes dart between each of the dates and I see the same horrifying pattern.

  “They all died when they were thirty-three,” I say as understanding dawns on me.

  Sully nods. “Not just when they were thirty-three,” he says. “Look a little closer.”

  September fourth to December seventh. June fifteenth to September eighteenth. November tenth to February thirteenth. April twenty-second to July twenty-fifth.

  “Thirty-three years, three months, and three days,” I whisper. My eyes flick from date to date, double-checking that my math is correct.

  It is.

  “Yes,” Sully breathes. “Every one of them met a strange and seemingly random death three months and three days after they turned thirty-three.”

  I look back over at the eighth generation Whitmore male. And my mind counts out the days.

  “So, May seventh…”

  “I’m going to die,” he says in a breath.

  Chapter Twenty

  SULLY

  “Why?” Iona asks. I turn back around, making my way through the graveyard. “How?”

  “Doesn’t really matter at this point,” I say as I step around Dot Hannely’s crumbling headstone. “It’s a proven system. I’ve had my entire life to prepare for its execution.”

  “Sully,” she says as she hurries to catch up to me. “There has to be something that can be done about it. No one is supposed to know when death will come for them. How can you…how c
an you just accept it with such ease?”

  I sigh. I should have known better than to go where I just did. “Iona, in two days you’re going to leave. And I’m sorry that I reminded you that while you are dealing with grief and so love sick you can’t move on with your life, others are dealing with real issues, as well. The world continues to move on, problems and pain and all.”

  She’s quiet for a moment, but I don’t look in her direction. I’m certain there’s yet another taken aback expression on her pretty little face. She’s getting very practiced in them. Apparently, I’m quite a jarring person.

  “Okay, so what is it then?” she moves on, expertly ignoring my previous honesty. “Is it a curse or something? I mean, it’s so specific. I just—”

  I round on her and she nearly crashes right into me. “Look,” I say, my voice sharp and low. “You will be leaving very soon. You do not know me. You do not know the Whitmores or Roselock. You do not need to feel sorry for me or feel guilt or whatever emotions are rushing through you.”

  I take half a step closer to her, which is impressive considering our proximity. “You still have a long life before you. I will speak to Jack for you twice more. And then you will return home. You will eat one whole chocolate cake a day until you don’t look like a skeleton anymore, and get healthy and human. And then you’re going to live your life. You’re going to learn to be happy and eventually you will find someone else to love.”

  Tears spring into her eyes and she leans away from me, a scared little fawn.

  “And in a few months, you won’t think of me for one moment,” I say, feeling the rabid monster in me calming. “You’ll separate from this cursed place the minute your tires hit the highway. You’re going to move on, from all of this.”

  Three tears roll out onto her cheeks.

  But I don’t offer comfort.

  It’s what I needed to say and what she needed to hear.

  I turn and head back to the church. I push open the gate and cross the soggy lawn before stepping up onto the deck.

  Half a step into the warmth of shelter, an absence of color catches my eye.

  Hundreds of roses climb all over the church. Red and brilliant as blood against the white siding.

  But there, just above the window to my right, grows a new bud. Its petals have only just begun to peel open.

  Red. White.

  A perfectly formed rose with red petals.

  But within the center of it, a snowy white one is just barely visible.

  An omen of the approaching end.

  Footsteps on the deck pull my attention away from the rose and I see Iona looking very solemn and quiet. I step aside, letting her into the church and then I close the door behind the two of us.

  “You said you’d speak to Jack two more times,” she says through a thick throat. “Give me an hour. I need to figure out what I want to say to him.”

  I nod once. Leaving her alone next to the fire, I walk through the door into the chapel.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  IONA

  “Cressida, I’m sorry,” I said into the telephone, wrapping the cord around my finger. “I just can’t afford to take time off work.”

  “We need this, Iona,” she said, the frustration and annoyance heavy in her voice. “Harold is…well, things have been tense between us. A vacation would do us so much good. And mom, I just can’t leave the kids with her when she gets like this.”

  “I know,” I say, squeezing my eyes closed. I lean my forehead against the wall. “I really am sorry. You know I love spending time with the kids, but we have all this stuff going on at work, and if I take time off I’m afraid they’ll fire me.”

  “Fine,” my older sister clipped. “Do what you’ve got to do. It’s only my marriage on the line.”

  She hung up on me.

  I sat the phone back on the hook and ran my hands down my face, frustration seeping into my bones. I loved my sister, I really did, but sometimes she got a little unrealistic with her expectations.

  A knock echoed through the apartment from the front door.

  Cursing under my breath, I headed to it and pulled it open.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, ushering Jack inside, unable to even pull off a little smile. “My sister called and I completely forgot about dinner. Want to re-schedule for tomorrow?”

  “Hey, hey,” he said gently, running his hands down the back of my arms, pulling me a few steps closer to him. “I’m not here just because you said you’d feed me.” He chuckled. “How about I help you make everything, and you tell me what’s wrong?”

  I sighed, squeezing my eyes closed as I let myself fall forward into his arms, hugging myself to his chest.

  Four weeks had passed since our first date and dip in the fountain. Numerous dates had taken place, and a Thursday night tradition quickly formed where I would make dinner for the two of us after work.

  I lifted my chin, my lips quickly finding his, feeling so much comfort sink into every crack in me.

  Dozens of kisses. Endless walks, hand in hand.

  Jack Caraway had very quickly become the highlight of my life.

  “I don’t really want to talk about Cressida and her drama,” I said as I turned for the refrigerator, pulling out the ingredients. I pull out the cutting board and put Jack to work on the tomatoes. It was just the two of us for dinner. Viola was at work. “How was work today?”

  “Fine,” he said, dutifully setting to cutting them up once he took his jacket off and loosened his tie. “We both agreed one of my patients didn’t need to see me again for the next two months.”

  “That’s good,” I said hopefully as I put the noodles in the big pot.

  “Yeah,” he said with a smile in his voice. “I think she’s going to be just fine.”

  I moved on to the next stage of dinner, but I found my mind drifting back to Cressida and her kids.

  Guilt was eating me alive.

  “Iona,” a soft voice suddenly said from behind me, at the same time a strong pair of hands wrapped around my waist. He pulled me back, nestling my body against his, a perfect fit. “Something is obviously bothering you. Talk to me.”

  “Don’t you get tired of people talking to you?” I said, trying to push off the seriousness with a playful tone, and failing.

  “Never you,” he whispered against my cheek, his lips brushing my skin. Instantly my eyes fluttered closed, every hormone in my body going crazy. “I never get sick of you, baby.”

  I turned in his grasp and he stepped closer, pinning me between the counter and his body. His hands rose up to my hair, guiding my face to his. Placing my lips on his, exactly where I wanted them.

  I tugged at his tie, pulling it from around his neck, my fingers getting forceful with the buttons on his shirt. Jack’s hands went from my back, down to my hips, pulling them closer to him.

  “I need you, Iona,” he breathed into my mouth. “I need you like oxygen. Like a vice I can’t break. You’re my drug habit I can’t and don’t want to break.”

  “Jack,” I moaned as his hands wrapped around to my behind, and he pressed his hips all the harder into mine.

  “Say you’ll be mine,” he whispered against my skin as his lips moved to the hollow beneath my ear. “I want you to be mine. Only mine.”

  My eyes fluttered once before sliding closed once more, my head lolling back as he kissed a line across my throat. “I’m yours.”

  His hands hoisted me up, my legs wrapping around his waist. My fingers fought to free him from the buttons with more vigor as he took possession of my lips once more. One slow step at a time, he took us back to the bedroom and pushed the door closed behind him.

  I don’t remember falling asleep after we made love. But at some point, late at night, I woke up. I was lying on my stomach, facing the door. My eyes fluttered open, feeling groggy and heavy. Our clothes were scattered all over the floor. A sock there. My skirt pushed up against the closet. A scattering of Jack’s things on the bedside table. Some ch
ange. A set of keys. His grandfather’s pocket watch.

  I heard Jack shift in the bed beside me and rolled over to find myself nose to nose with him.

  “Hi,” he breathed as he ran his knuckles down my cheek.

  “Hey,” I smiled. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

  “It’s okay,” he said with a smile in return. “Guess my talking afterward lulled you right into sleep.”

  I chuckled, a happy sigh escaping me. I snuggled myself tighter into his side.

  The look in Jack’s eyes grew deeper. He propped himself up on his elbow, looking down at me. I let my hands rise up, tracing them down his defined, bare chest.

  “You know I adore you, right?” he said, low but firm. “I adore you, Iona Faye.”

  And something clicked inside of me. I’d never felt this way for another person. So right and connected and centered.

  I lifted one hand to place it on the back of his neck, bringing his face closer to mine.

  “I love you,” I said, firm and true.

  And I had no doubt he felt the same way. Something solidified in Jack’s eyes, something that promised to never, ever let me go.

  I had no doubt about it.

  This was it.

  “I love you, too.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  SULLY

  “Come on.”

  Iona stands in the doorway, not meeting my eye. My fingers are still on the organ keys. I look up at her. It’s hard to describe her demeanor right now. Tense. Tight. Locked up.

  I had shut her down earlier, called her out. And then she had time to go and prepare herself for what is to come.

  I’m not sure if it’s a sign of strength, or her further fracturing.

  The two of us walk out of the chapel and down the hall to the darkened room. I pick up the matches and begin lighting the candles. Iona closes the door behind us. And instantly, the room grows colder.

  I look over my shoulder to see Iona standing before her chair. She lets out a big billow of breath, forming a cloud. But she doesn’t look afraid. She looks ready.