Chapter 2: A Ghost in the Garden

Vivian barely slept.

The motel room smelled of stale cigarettes and old regrets. She lay on the thin mattress, boots still on, revolver within reach. Rain tapped the window like an impatient reminder that Willow Creek didn’t want her here — or maybe it did. Maybe the town was hungry for a reckoning, too.

By dawn, she was up. The coffee from the lobby tasted like burnt tar, but she drank it anyway. In the mirror, she practiced her smile — the one that said trust me. She hadn’t needed it in years. The old Eleanor smile had been soft, gracious. Vivian’s was sharper now — a blade pretending to be a ribbon.

She tucked her gun into her bag and slipped out before the sun climbed over the hills.

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At the diner on Main Street, the locals gathered like crows around cheap coffee and gossip. Vivian knew some of them by face — or she had, once. The old men at the corner booth had tipped their hats to Eleanor Winters at charity balls. Now they just squinted at the stranger in black jeans and a borrowed leather jacket.

She ordered eggs she didn’t eat and coffee she didn’t want. She listened. Talked about the weather, the dying lumber mill, the rumors of Winters Oil pulling out of town if the new pipeline didn’t pass. And always, Daniel’s name floated through the conversations like a phantom: Mr. Winters this, Mr. Winters that.

To them, he was a savior. A charming philanthropist who wrote checks at church auctions, sponsored Little League, kept half the town’s lights on.

They didn’t know the other side — the late-night threats, the hush money, the night on that bridge when his mask slipped and the woman who bore his name ‘disappeared.’

She forced down a bite of cold eggs, then left cash on the counter.

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Outside, the sun finally cracked through the clouds, throwing golden light across the street. Vivian squinted at the Winters Estate on the hill — visible even from town, mocking her with its white columns and blood roses.

She had a plan, but plans were only as strong as the ghosts that carried them. So she drove up the hill. Slowly, deliberately. The guard at the gate — a new face, young, local muscle — stepped forward.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” he asked, adjusting the rifle slung over his shoulder.

Vivian smiled — the blade wrapped in ribbon. “Tell Daniel an old friend wants to see the gardens.”

The boy frowned. “I need a name, ma’am.”

She tapped her sunglasses back into place. “Tell him it’s Vivian Hart. He’ll know.”

The boy stepped back into the guard booth to radio in. Vivian drummed her fingers on the Mustang’s wheel. She half expected Daniel to refuse. He wouldn’t. He was too arrogant for that. He’d want to see who dared whisper from the grave.

The gate creaked open. The boy waved her through, looking spooked.

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The long driveway coiled through rose gardens Eleanor had once tended herself. She remembered planting those first bushes with scraped knees and dirt under her nails. Daniel had taken her hand and said “You’ll make this place beautiful again.”

He’d meant malleable. Obedient.

She’d been both — once. Never again.

Vivian parked beneath the massive portico. The house loomed above her, a cathedral built from oil money and polished secrets. A maid — older, gray-haired, familiar — opened the door, eyes wide as she took in the stranger who didn’t quite look like Eleanor but somehow did.

Vivian brushed past her. Let the whispers spread. Ghosts didn’t need permission to haunt old halls.

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She found him in the sunroom, standing before tall windows that looked out over his empire of roses and broken promises. Daniel Winters turned, glass of bourbon already in hand — 10 a.m. was apparently not too early for poison.

For a heartbeat, his smile slipped. Just for a breath. Then it was back — charming, wolfish, insincere.

“Vivian Hart,” he drawled, voice dripping honey and venom. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Vivian crossed her arms, taking in the silver streak at his temples — stress, age, or maybe guilt. He wore it well, like a snake shedding skin.

“I heard the gardens were beautiful this time of year,” she said. “Thought I’d see if the stories were true.”

Daniel raised his glass in mock toast. “Everything’s beautiful here, Miss Hart. Always has been.”

She stepped closer, close enough to smell the bourbon, the expensive cologne. Close enough that if she reached out, she could press the revolver to his heart — but that would be too merciful.

“Some things stay buried,” she said softly, just for him. “Some things don’t.”

His jaw tightened — the only crack in the mask. Good. Let him wonder. Let him sweat.

She let the silence coil between them, then turned on her heel before he could summon his lies. The ghost had come to visit. She’d come back to dig.

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Outside, the roses brushed her fingertips as she passed. Crimson, soft, fragrant — and underneath the perfume, the faint iron scent of old blood only she could smell.

She didn’t see Jack Callahan’s patrol truck parked at the bottom of the hill, but he saw her — sunglasses, dark hair, the way she moved like she belonged to these grounds and didn’t all at once. He watched her drive away without stopping her. He just made a note in his worn leather notebook.

He’d ask his questions soon enough.

And Vivian Hart would decide how many answers she’d give him — if any at all.

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