Morgan stared at DC.
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“You worked here.”
“I still work here.”
“You know what I mean.”
DC glanced at the mysterious glass, but made no move to touch it. Instead, he folded his arms against the edge of the bar.
“She never told me.”
“And you never asked?”
“Of course I asked.”
“And?”
“She told me to mind my business.”
Morgan almost smiled.
That sounded exactly like her grandmother.
Almost.
“What did she do while she was here?”
“Mostly sat there.”
“Waiting.”
“That’s what she said.”
“Same time every Friday?”
“Usually around nine.”
“And how long would she stay?”
“Sometimes twenty minutes. Sometimes until closing.”
Morgan glanced at the empty stool.
“Did anyone ever show up?”
“Not that I saw.”
Morgan looked back at him.
“But?”
DC hesitated.
There it was again.
“DC.”
“Once or twice, I heard her talking.”
“To who?”
“That’s the problem.”
The room suddenly felt quieter.
“I never saw anyone sitting with her.”
Morgan looked at the stool again.
“No.”
“I’m telling you what happened.”
“So my grandmother spent six months having conversations with an empty chair?”
“I thought she was talking to herself.”
“That would have been useful information to mention before the disappearing bourbon.”
“I didn’t exactly expect the disappearing bourbon.”
Fair.
Morgan picked up her coat.
DC straightened.
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be alone tonight.”
She looked at him.
“Are you offering to protect me from an apple?”
“I was thinking more about whatever apparently drinks bourbon without a mouth.”
Morgan pulled on her coat.
“I’ll take my chances with the apple.”
She had nearly reached the door when DC called after her.
“Morgan.”
She turned.
His expression had changed.
“What?”
“Tomorrow. Mrs. Bell.”
“I know.”
“No.”
DC glanced toward the empty stool.
“Whatever she tells you, ask her about October seventeenth.”
Morgan frowned.
“What happened on October seventeenth?”
DC looked at the glass.
“I don’t know.”
“You’re becoming remarkably unhelpful.”
“Your grandmother came in that night. She sat in that chair until closing.”
“So?”
“She wasn’t waiting that time.”
Morgan stopped.
“How do you know?”
DC met her eyes.
“Because whoever she’d been waiting for finally came.”
Morgan slept badly.
Not because of the apple.
At least, that was what she told herself.
She had put it beneath an overturned mixing bowl on the kitchen table, which felt ridiculous but satisfied Mrs. Bell’s instruction to put it somewhere safe.
Then she had taken the brass key upstairs.
She still hadn’t told anyone about it.
At two in the morning, she considered calling DC and asking what exactly he had seen on October seventeenth.
At three, she considered calling Mrs. Bell.
At four, she decided everyone in Bellweather was exhausting and buried her head beneath a pillow.
Sometime after that, she finally slept.
When Morgan woke, sunlight was already slipping through the curtains.
The house was quiet.
She dressed, went downstairs, and checked the kitchen first.
The mixing bowl was exactly where she had left it.
Morgan lifted it.
The apple remained underneath.
Dry.
Cold.
Ordinary.
“Wonderful.”
She replaced the bowl.
Coffee first.
Mysteries later.
Her grandmother had always maintained that no worthwhile decision should be made before coffee, and Morgan had no intention of disrespecting the dead by suddenly developing better habits.
She carried her mug into the living room.
Then stopped.
Something smelled warm.
Not coffee.
Cinnamon.
Morgan looked toward the fireplace.
The grate was empty.
Of course it was.
Her grandmother hadn’t used the fireplace during the last few years of her life. Morgan had cleaned it out that morning while sorting through the room, removing old ash that had probably been sitting there for years.
She walked closer.
Heat touched her face.
Morgan stopped.
“No.”
She crouched.
Nothing.
No flame.
No smoke.
She held her hand near the grate.
Warm.
Definitely warm.
Morgan grabbed the iron poker and shifted the remaining ash.
A tiny red ember glowed beneath it.
She stared.
That was impossible.
She had cleaned the fireplace herself.
More importantly, nobody had lit a fire.
Morgan reached for her phone.
The ember brightened.
Then another appeared beside it.
A dry piece of old kindling near the back of the grate began to smoke.
Morgan stood quickly.
“No, no, no.”
She grabbed the small fire extinguisher her grandmother had kept beside the bookcase.
Before she could pull the pin, something struck inside the chimney.
Three slow, deliberate knocks.
Morgan froze.
The embers flared, and heat rolled into the room.
Morgan backed away.
Her phone rang.
She nearly dropped the extinguisher.
Mrs. Bell.
Morgan answered immediately.
“Something is happening.”
“I know.”
Morgan went still.
“What do you mean, you know?”
“Look at the fireplace.”
“I am looking at the fireplace.”
“Is it burning?”
“Not exactly.”
Mrs. Bell exhaled.
“Good.”
“Good?”
“Do not light it.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Whatever happens, Morgan, do not give it a flame.”
Another knock sounded inside the chimney.
Mrs. Bell heard it.
Morgan knew because the other end of the call went completely silent.
“You heard that.”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know.”
Morgan closed her eyes.
“Everyone in this town seems to know an impressive amount about things they supposedly know nothing about.”
“Morgan.”
“What?”
“Get out of the house.”
The sharpness in Mrs. Bell’s voice erased Morgan’s irritation.
She grabbed her coat.
Another knock.
This one was louder.
Morgan headed toward the front door.
Then stopped.
The brass key was upstairs.
She didn’t know why that mattered.
She only knew she wasn’t leaving it behind.
“Morgan?”
“I’m here.”
“Then leave.”
“One second.”
“Morgan Bennett, you listen to me.”
Morgan was already climbing the stairs.
The temperature changed halfway up.
Downstairs, the living room had grown warm.
Up here, the air was cold.
She hurried into the bedroom and grabbed the key from the nightstand.
The moment her fingers closed around it, the knocking in the chimney stopped.
Morgan stood still.
“Mrs. Bell?”
No answer.
She looked at her phone.
The call had disconnected.
Then she smelled smoke.
Morgan ran downstairs.
The living room was hazy now.
The embers had multiplied beneath the grate, glowing a deep, angry red.
She reached the front door.
Behind her, something moved inside the fireplace.
Morgan turned.
There, among the ashes, was a piece of paper.
Its edges had begun to curl from the heat.
It hadn’t been there before.
She should have left.
Mrs. Bell had told her to leave.
Every reasonable instinct she possessed told her to open the door and keep walking.
Morgan crossed the room instead.
Using the iron poker, she dragged the paper away from the embers.
It was an old photograph.
The image had yellowed with age.
Her grandmother stood in front of Bellweather Orchard.
She was young. Younger than Morgan was now.
Mrs. Bell stood beside her.
And between them stood a young man Morgan had never seen.
The photograph had been folded once directly through his face.
Morgan turned it over.
Three names were written across the back.
Evelyn Bennett.
Margaret Bell.
And beneath them:
Thomas Mercer.
Morgan stared at the last name.
Below it, written in different ink, was a date.
October 17.
The front door slammed shut behind her.
Morgan spun around.
The embers in the fireplace went black.
The room fell cold.
And from beneath the overturned mixing bowl in the kitchen came a soft, unmistakable sound.
Knock.
