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Part One

Retribution

“There are ways of dying that don't end in funerals. Types of death you can't smell.”

—Haruki Murakami

Chapter 1

Blue Hour

ADONIS

JUNE 2025

The sun is gone but darkness has yet to completely cloak what daylight illuminated. It’s the blue hue over the graveyard that pulls me out of my car and onto the worn ground leading to my grandfather’s headstone.

Humidity dots my forehead with sweat after sitting in my air-conditioned office all day, and the thick fog plaguing Wildwood for the past week makes the path in front of me murky at best. But I don’t need light to get where I’m going.

Forty-two steps.

I’ve walked this exact path enough times that I can get there with my eyes closed.

Rolling the stem of the singular red rose between my fingertips, I silently tally the steps in my head.

On step thirty-five, my stride falters by the light postwhen I see a figure crouched over a plot a few rows down from my grandfather’s grave, picking at the overgrown grass with bare hands.

The dense cover of fog mutes the glow of the lamppost, but it still has a haloing effect on the woman busy at work.

She’s oblivious to my curious gaze and that just makes me watch her harder, the last seven paces of my journey forgotten.

Long, dark hair is gathered loosely at her nape, held back with a red ribbon tied in a bow that looks like it’s one strong breeze away from unraveling.

A pair of flimsy sandals cover her small feet, and my eyes linger on the hem of her skirt before skating over the rest of her slight frame.

Maybe it’s the absence of the sun, but her brown skin looks ashen, and I don’t like that I can clearly see the outline of her backbone or her protruding shoulder blades through her shirt.

Biting the inside of my cheek, I force my thoughts away from criticism and accept maybe it’s grief that’s stolen pieces of her. Thisisa graveyard.

With those thoughts pushed aside, I redirect my attention to her handiwork when I hear the distinct rustling of plastic.

The woman sits back on her heels, admiring her efforts. A barely audible sigh floats in the air and I find myself still stuck in place, fixated on the plot of land in front of her.

Instead of a headstone, a plastic-wrapped bouquet of white calla lilies now rests where one should be, the price sticker from the grocery store still visible.

$39.99.

I’m not a conversational person, so I don’t know whymy lips part to ask the back of her a question. “How long has it been?”

With zero urgency, she turns to look at me over her shoulder and I’m not prepared for the bewitching pull of her stare or the question that falls from her lips.

“You can see me?” she deadpans on a whisper, her face stoic while mine falls in a frown.

A second later, soft laughter tumbles out of her and something like relief pushes away my unease. “Funny,” I mutter dryly.

“You should see your face.” She pushes to her feet and joins me on the worn path, staring up at me. “Relax, I’m not a ghost. Not yet at least.” She mumbles the last part, but the air is still enough for me to catch every word.

Delicate fingers find a wisp of errant hair and she shoves it away from her face.