The gasp that rippled through the Savannah cemetery was sharper than the humid morning air. Chloe’s hand, porcelain-pale and marred by jagged, crimson-stained nails, hung over the edge of the mahogany casket. It was the hand of someone who had fought—not against death, but against a lid.
Eleanor reached out, her fingers trembling as she pried the crumpled scrap of paper from Chloe’s stiffening grip.
“Don’t touch that!” Adam hissed, stepping forward. His face was no longer pale; it was a sickly shade of grey, his eyes darting toward the open grave like a trapped animal.
Eleanor ignored him. She smoothed the paper against her palm. The handwriting was frantic, scrawled in what looked like dark, dried blood. It read:
“I am not dead yet. He gave me the blue pills. He’s taking the boy to the basement on Oglethorpe St. Save my son.”
