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He gave me a flat smile. “Everyone around here knew the Whisper family.”
“Have they been gone long?”
He hesitated a split-second, then handed me the credit slip. “You be careful in that house, you hear?” Then he shepherded me out and resumed sweeping.
I bit into my lip. Obviously, I needed to do some more Googling.
July 10, Wednesday
BUT WITHOUT family names, I couldn’t find any information online about the house or the Whisper family. I ventured into the other bedrooms and did some poking around. The bedroom at the opposite corner seemed the most updated. I opened the closet door and found lots of simple, slender dresses that were timeless, so it was hard to tell the age of the wearer. But the stale air told me it had been a while since the clothing had been stirred.
In the dresser I found more casual clothes—sturdy pants and long-sleeve shirts. And personal items belonging to a woman in her thirties, if I had to guess—makeup, costume jewelry, a sewing kit.
I smiled—whoever she was, she liked to read romance novels. The room was littered with paperbacks ranging from contemporary romcoms to the classic gothic novels I’d grown up on written by Phyllis Whitney, Victoria Holt, and Mary Stewart. I opened one of the books and found the name “Rose Whisper” written on the inside.
I ran my finger over her name, wondering about her identity and why she wasn’t in the house. Maybe like my mother, she’d taken a long vacation, or had moved away.
Then a disturbing thought floated into my brain.
Maybe she’d died.
I found a photo album and opened it to find photos of a young girl growing up on the property—I recognized rooms and the chicken house in the background. The photos thinned out as she’d grown older and the last few were of her between a man and a woman I assumed were her parents. The photos had ended abruptly except for one showing the woman, now in her late twenties, I guessed, smiling through her outstretched fingers, protesting having her picture taken.
I heard a rumbling noise from the road. My first thought that it was Sawyer’s truck was banished when I realized it sounded like a heavier vehicle. I closed the photo album and returned to my bedroom to investigate from the window.
A flatbed delivery truck was carefully navigating the rutted, narrow road. In the open back were at least a dozen shiny new gravestones, lined up and strapped down. Obviously the driver had a delivery for the Whisper Graveyard.
Curiosity drove me to exit the house and follow the truck. It was parked outside the gate when I arrived, and the driver, a burly, bearded man, was using a hand truck to roll a pale headstone with a curved top down a ramp. At the bottom he paused to wipe his brow, then saw me and offered a wave. “Howdy. You the caretaker here?”
“Um… I guess so.”
“I just need someone to sign the manifest and say you saw me drop off this headstone.”
“I can do that,” I agreed. “Do you know where it goes?”
“Yeah, I got the plot number. The local funeral home will be out to set it.”
He handed me the clipboard. I studied the typed form detailing one marble headstone. Under “Inscription” was the name and date chiseled into the gravestone. I froze.
Rose Whisper. Beloved. Born January 2, 1992. Died February 14, 2024.
The woman was young, about my age. And she’d died less than five months ago.
But how?
July 11, Thursday
I STUDIED the photos I’d taken of the headstones of the Whisper family. Some of them dated back to the late 1800s. Before Rose, the most recent deaths were of a man named Charles and a woman named Sophia. The age of the couple was right for them to be Rose’s parents and considering the proximity of her unmarked plot to theirs, it made sense. Then I realized the dates of death for Charles and Sophia were the same—a tragic car accident, maybe? The year would’ve meant Rose was only seventeen or eighteen when her parents had died.
My heart squeezed for her loss. I’d lost my father when I was fourteen and at times I still missed him so much I didn’t think I could stand it.
Armed with new names and dates, I went back to the internet to search for more information. I found a tiny article on the deaths of two locals, Charles and Sophia Whisper, in a tragic car accident near their home in Irving, Alabama. Their teenaged daughter Rose had survived the crash.
And I found the obituary for Rose Whisper. There was no cause of death listed, only that there would be a private memorial service at a future date.
My phone buzzed and I looked down to see my mother’s glamourous headshot on the screen. I winced, but realized I had to talk to her sooner or later. And hopefully, she was on a luxury schooner somewhere, calling me from a satellite phone, blissfully unaware that my life had exploded.
I connected the call. “Hi, Mom.”
