The Last Witness
Rosemary POV
I tear through Millicent's desk drawers with desperate efficiency, searching for anything that might explain what I've stumbled into. Bills, inventory lists, correspondence with book suppliers—nothing that resembles a supernatural survival guide. My hands shake as I rifle through papers, the taste of Holden's perfectly prepared coffee still bitter on my tongue.
The small leather address book hides beneath a stack of unpaid invoices, its pages yellowed with age and use. Most entries are written in Millicent's careful script: local businesses, distant relatives, book dealers across the country. But one entry stops my frantic searching cold.
Sarah Riley - SAFE - followed by a phone number with a local area code.
Sarah. The name from Millicent's journal, the one person she said to trust. I flip back through the photographs scattered across the desk, searching for any mention of this woman who might hold answers to questions I'm barely brave enough to ask.
There—tucked between images from 1982 and 1955, a newspaper clipping so faded I almost missed it. "Local Woman Survives Tragic Eclipse Incident That Claims Sister's Life." The accompanying photograph shows two young women who could be twins, both bearing the familiar Decker features. But only one name appears in the caption: Sarah Riley, 22, mourning the loss of her sister Margaret during what authorities called a "hiking accident" during the lunar eclipse.
Margaret. The woman who died in 1982. Sarah's sister.
My fingers dial the number before rational thought can intervene. The phone rings once, twice—
"Hello?" The voice sounds older than I expected, roughened by years and what might be cigarettes or mountain air.
"Sarah Riley? My name is Rosemary Decker. I think—I think you knew my great-aunt Millicent."
Silence stretches across the connection, so complete I wonder if she hung up.
"Sarah? Are you there?"
"Jesus Christ." The words come out like a prayer or a curse. "You're here. In Thornwick Hollow."
"Yes, I inherited the bookshop. I found some things in Millicent's papers, and your name was marked as safe. I need to talk to someone about—"
"No." The word cracks like a whip. "Don't say anything else over the phone. They listen. They've always listened."
"Who listens? Sarah, I don't understand what's happening here, but I think I'm in danger."
"You think?" Bitter laughter erupts from the speaker. "Honey, you're not in danger. You're already dead. The only question is whether you know it yet."
The brutal honesty hits like a physical blow. "That's why I'm calling. I found photographs, genealogy charts. Women who look just like me, all died during eclipses. I need to know—"
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone in my hand, listening to the dial tone buzz like an angry insect. Sarah Riley—the only person marked as safe in Millicent's address book—just told me I'm already dead and hung up on me.
My hands shake as I redial the number. It rings endlessly without answer.
The afternoon sun slants through the bookshop windows at a sharper angle now, casting long shadows that seem to reach toward me like grasping fingers. I need to get out of here. I need to research Sarah Riley, find her address, convince her to help me understand what killed her sister and might kill me.
A knock at the front door makes me jump hard enough to scatter papers across the desk.
Through the glass, I see a delivery driver holding a small package, his uniform identifying him as working for one of those overnight shipping companies. I unlock the door with trembling fingers.
"Rosemary Decker?"
"Yes."
He hands me a padded envelope with no return address, just my name printed in block letters that look almost mechanical in their precision. "Have a good day, ma'am."
I lock the door behind him and examine the package. No postmark, no shipping label beyond my name and the bookshop's address. Someone either paid cash for overnight delivery or hand-delivered this to a shipping center.
Inside, nestled in bubble wrap like a fragile treasure, I find a train ticket.
Seattle-bound. Departing tomorrow at 6:47 AM from the station two towns over. First class accommodations, with a note typed on plain white paper: "Some inheritances are more trouble than they're worth. Consider this a gift."
My blood turns to ice. Someone knows I've discovered the truth about my family history. Someone wants me gone from Thornwick Hollow before I can learn more or find help. Someone with enough money to buy first-class train tickets and enough knowledge to know exactly what I've uncovered in Millicent's hidden room.
But who? Holden would know about my discoveries—he saw the genealogy charts, the scattered photographs. But would he want me to leave? Everything about his behavior suggests the opposite, like he's invested in keeping me here for reasons I don't want to contemplate.
His father, maybe. The mysterious Elliot Ashworth that Millicent's journal mentioned with such fear. Or someone else entirely, someone who doesn't want the covenant disrupted by a woman who might fight back instead of submitting.
I study the ticket, noting details that make my skin crawl. The departure time would get me out of town before most people wake up. The destination is Seattle—the city I just fled, the place where I have no life left to return to. Someone researched my background thoroughly enough to know exactly where to send me.
The note bothers me most. "Some inheritances are more trouble than they're worth." It sounds like something someone might say who's watched other women face this choice before. Someone who knows the price of staying versus the safety of running.
But running means abandoning any chance of breaking the cycle. It means the next woman in my bloodline—some distant cousin or future daughter I might never have—will face this same choice in another twenty-seven years. It means six generations of murder will continue because I was too afraid to fight.
I tear the ticket in half.
The paper rips with satisfying violence, and I let the pieces flutter to the floor like confetti at a funeral. Whoever sent this expected me to be grateful for the escape route, expected fear to override curiosity and self-preservation to win over justice.
They don't know me very well.
My phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number: "The ticket was a courtesy. Next time won't be so polite."
I delete the message and power off the phone, but the threat lingers in my mind like smoke. Someone is watching me closely enough to know I destroyed the ticket. Someone with resources and patience and the willingness to escalate if I don't cooperate.
Outside, the mountain town continues its deceptively peaceful routine. A woman waters her garden. Children play in the square. An elderly man walks his dog past the bookshop, pausing to wave at me through the window with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
Normal life, if you don't look too closely at the way everyone's attention keeps drifting to my location. If you don't notice how conversations stop when I pass, or how children are quietly called inside when I appear.
The train ticket was Plan A—convince me to leave voluntarily. But there will be a Plan B, and probably a Plan C, each escalating in severity until I either flee or die.
Twenty-five days until the crimson eclipse. Twenty-five days to find Sarah Riley and convince her to help me. Twenty-five days to learn enough about this covenant to break it instead of becoming its latest victim.
But first, I need to figure out who sent the ticket and what they're willing to do to ensure my compliance. Because in a town where everyone seems to know more about my fate than I do, the person trying to save me might be more dangerous than the ones planning to kill me.
I gather the torn ticket pieces and drop them in the fireplace, watching the flames consume what someone hoped would be my salvation. The smoke rises up the chimney like a prayer or a declaration of war.
Let them know I'm not running. Let them understand that this Decker woman won't go quietly into whatever darkness claimed her ancestors.
But as I watch the last piece burn, I can't shake the feeling that I just made the most dangerous decision of my life.