Lena Hartwell stepped out of the Greyhound bus with nothing but a battered suitcase, a sore heart, and one stubborn promise to her sister.
Magnolia Falls was unchanged. The magnolia trees still bent over the broken sidewalks like protecting arms. Honeysuckle still perfumed the air. And the whispers? They picked up where they had left off.
"Is that Lena Hartwell?" someone whispered at the flower stand.
"Heard she was in some scandal in New York…"
"Volunteered with her tail tucked, I bet."
Lena lifted her chin high. If they were going to stare, so be it. She wasn't here for the town's forgiveness. Just long enough to help with Sophia's wedding—and leave before the walls sucked her in.
Her family home sat at the corner of Sycamore Lane, faded and wilted like it held its breath for her return. Faded shutters, sagging porch. Sorrow lived behind the walls. She could feel it.
Sophia met her halfway up the stairs, all high-strung nerves and big smiles.
"Made it," said her sister, embracing her.
"Lemon pie and guilt bribed me," Lena said, hugging her back. "Tough to refuse."
They laughed, but it was laughter that hung around something. Laughter that held on for silence to keep out the truth.
That night, they sipped sweet tea in the kitchen and danced around the one topic they both did not want to discuss: Lena's ruin.
She did not speak of New York—the news, the scandal, the way she had been manipulated by her boss, and then used and discarded. She was not quite prepared to bleed yet for someone, not even for her sister.
But next morning, Sophia laid the bait.
"They are renovating the Monroe mansion," she said over breakfast, passing across a crumpled piece of paper. "I spoke of you to them."
Lena blinked. "You what?"
"They need a designer. A person to oversee the restoration. I told them you were coming back. Caleb Monroe took an appointment with you."
Lena nearly choked on her coffee. "The Caleb Monroe? The one who vanished after his sister died?"
Sophia nodded cautiously. "He's not himself. Just. be kind to him. And maybe to yourself too."
---
$$
By mid-afternoon, Lena stood before the gates of the Monroe estate.
The house receded from the road, ivy-covered and still. The white pillars were weathered, the gardens neglected. But the spirit of the house was beautiful. She could almost see what it had been—and what it might become.
Before she could rap, the front door creaked open.
Caleb Monroe stood in the doorway, black and still.
He didn't look like the golden boy in the yearbook photo. He'd gotten taller. Wider. His dark hair was messy, his gray eyes unreadable. A scar ran across his jawline like an exclamation point at the end of an enigma.
"You're the designer?" he said.
"Yes," she replied, letting calmness ride across her voice. "And I know you need a miracle."
He didn't smile. Just stepped aside and let her in.
The inside of the house was no better. Chandeliers hung like cobwebs. The wallpaper peeled in long, tired strips. Mirrors lined the hallway—warped and spotted, reflecting more memory than light.
"You know," she said, glancing around, "if you're going for haunted and tragic, you've nailed it."
Caleb's mouth twitched—almost a smirk. "Good. Keeps people away."
Lena tilted her head. "Well, if you wanted to go unnoticed, you used the wrong woman."
She strolled toward the sweeping staircase, tracing her fingers along the banister. At the end of the hall was darkness and silence. A well-worn book lay open on a hall table, and something dropped from its pages.
A yellowed envelope.
Lena reached a hand toward it, drawn to the handwriting.
Her mother's name was on it.
She hadn't even had a chance to breathe when Caleb's voice came out of nowhere. "Don't."
He appeared immediately beside her, grabbing the envelope and stuffing it into his coat.
"That's not yours," he declared.
Lena shot him a glare. "That letter was addressed to Elise Hartwell. My mother."
Caleb's jaw tightened. "And it's none of your business."
Without another word, he turned and went away.
Lena's chest tightened. There was something here—something more than old chandeliers and ghosts.
As she stepped into the night air, her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number. One new message.
> You don't know the truth about your mother's death. You're not safe at the Monroe estate.
Lena's fingers chilled.
Magnolia Falls had always held secrets.
But they were calling her name this time.