12-The funeral
CLAIRE
For days, I had been trying to make sense of Mason’s spirals. Every line he had drawn was like a puzzle that refused to be solved, something he couldn’t name butbhe still felt compelled to capture.
I turned the sketches over in my mind, over and over, tracing the shapes with my fingers, imagining the lighthouse at the center, and wondering what he had seen—or feared—there.
Why the spirals? What did they mean? They weren’t just doodles, not the kind someone drew out of boredom. Mason had been meticulous, obsessive even.
I pictured him at night, with his pencil scratching against paper, whispering to the shadows only he could see.
It felt like a code, a map, a warning. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized that Mason hadn’t just been restless—he had been haunted.
Haunted by something in that lighthouse, something no one else in Grayhaven knew about, something even Lila might never fully understand.
And then, two nights later, Lila’s message came.
Mason’s funeral is tomorrow, Please come to the church. I can’t do this alone.
It struck me harder than I expected. Not the funeral—that had been inevitable—but the fact that Lila had to ask me at all, someone she met a few days ago.
Lila had no one else. No family left, no friends who hadn’t already vanished when Mason’s name became a curse whispered in town. She only messaged me out of need, not choice.
That thought followed me as I stood outside the church.
The church stood on the far edge of town, small and worn, the kind of place you could pass by without noticing if not for the crooked steeple leaning slightly to one side.
The paint on the outside walls was peeling in strips. Behind the building was an old graveyard, the headstones all tilting at odd angles, many of them covered in moss until the names were barely readable.
As soon as I stepped inside, I felt uneasy. Something about the place was wrong, even if I couldn’t put it into words right away.
Someone shoved a folded program into my hand, and when I looked down, Mason’s name wasn’t even spelled right. Masen J. Brody. The middle initial was wrong too. It felt careless, like no one had bothered to check.
At the front of the church, the flowers set out near the altar weren’t fresh roses or lilies—they were old carnations.
Their petals were soft and browning at the edges,as though they had been pulled from another funeral and placed here again.
The priest stood before the congregation, reading the scripture too quickly, His eyes kept darting toward the clock above the doors, like he was counting down the minutes until it was over.
His words blurred together, more like a list of chores than a service for someone’s life.
I found myself wondering—if Mason were here, if he could see all of this—would he laugh at the absurdity of it? Or would this be exactly the kind of ending he always feared, one without care, one that made him feel small even in death?
Beside me, Lila gripped my hand so tightly my knuckles hurt. Her whole body trembled with every breath she tried to take. When the first hymn began, her strength gave way. And she started crying heavily.
The sound echoed too loudly in the quiet church, and people turned their heads to look at her. Their faces were filled with irritation, like her grief was a disturbance instead of the very reason we were here.
I slid my arm around her, pulled her into me, and whispered, “Ignore them. They don’t matter.”
Her tears soaked into my jacket, Then she slipped down from the pew onto her knees, her forehead pressed hard against the wood in front of us.
Her cries broke open, as though she had held them inside since the moment Mason died.
The turnout at the funeral was small. Shockingly small. Lila had mentioned that Mason had friends, people he spent time with, people who should have been here today.
But when I looked around the church, I didn’t see them. The faces around me were strangers.
There were men in stiff black jackets who kept their eyes on the hymn books instead of the casket. Women sat close together, their lips moving in low whispers that didn’t stop even when the priest began to pray.
They weren’t really mourning Mason. They didn’t even look like they had known him. They were only bodies in the pews, here to fill the empty spaces. Placeholders.
And then, in the back, I saw them.
Thomas Wren. Acting Sheriff Quinn. A deputy I didn’t recognize, his uniform pressed sharp as if he were here on duty rather than grief. The three of them stood apart from everyone else, their heads bent close together
This wasn’t grief. This was business.
My stomach knotted, my chest tightening until it was hard to breathe. I shifted slightly in the pew, pretending to adjust the shawl around Lila’s shoulders so I could turn my head just enough to hear them.
Their words came in broken pieces, but I caught enough. “Keep it quiet… file’s done… no more delays.”
I forced myself to face forward again. My jaw ached from clenching, from holding back the sudden urge to stand up and shout at them, to demand answers right then and there.
But not yet. Not in this place. Not like this.
At the front of the church, the casket sat alone. The wood had been polished until it shone faintly under the dim lights, but there were no flowers laid across the lid, no photographs propped up beside it.
Nothing personal. Nothing to mark it as Mason’s. It could have been anyone’s coffin.
The priest droned on, his words were tumbling together too quickly, like a man in a rush to be finished. Even the hymns were shortened—one verse instead of three.The whole service felt hurried, as if someone had put it on fast forward.
It was over almost before it began.
We filed out into the graveyard, At the far edge of the yard, the grave was already waiting. The hole gaped wide, the pile of dirt beside was too high, too neat.
It hadn’t been dug this morning. It had been ready. Waiting. As though they were eager to close it up before the day had even started.
The pallbearers carried Mason’s casket without ceremony. Their steps were quick. When the ropes slipped through their hands, the wood scraped harshly against the sides of the grave.
There was no care in it. No reverence. Just impatience to be done.
The casket had barely touched the bottom before men with shovels stepped forward. Dirt fell in heavy clumps while the priest was still speaking his final words. The sound was brutal and and I felt Lila's whole body flinch beside me, as though the dirt had struck her instead.
And then she broke.
She collapsed into me, sobbing heavily but I caught her, pulling her close, holding her up as her body shook against mine.
“It’s okay,” I whispered, even though we both knew nothing about this was okay.
held her until her sobs slowed to uneven hiccups, her breath catching against my shoulder. When she finally lifted her head, her face was streaked with tears. But behind the grief in her eyes, there was something there.
Not just sorrow. Fury.
Her voice was hoarse when she finally spoke. “Mason would have hated this.”
At the edge of the grave, Quinn clasped the deputy’s shoulder, muttered something, then slid an envelope into his hand. The motion was quick, hidden almost, but I saw it.
Wren turned slightly away, his eyes were skimming the trees rather than the coffin. He didn’t look at me once. For a man who had dragged me into Grayhaven with promises of hiring me to find about Cal Rourke’s case. His silence meant everything.
This wasn’t about closure. They wanted Mason gone. Boxed up. Buried. Forgotten.
The mourners—if that’s what they were—drifted off quickly, their chatter returning like birdsong after a storm. There was no shared stories, no comfort for Lila.They all just left with no word.
Within minutes, only a few of us remained: the gravediggers finishing their work, Quinn and his men leaving through the side gate, and us.
Lila stared at the mound of fresh dirt. “They want me to forget him.”
“They won’t get their way,” I said quietly. “I promise you that.”
Her eyes flicked to mine. I gave her a nod. “I’ll find out what happened. Every piece. Even if I have to tear this town apart to do it"