Read a Sample of Ghost Next Door

Next: Chapter One

The Neighbor

The first time Sam Whitaker saw Barbara Henry, she was standing beside the stone entrance to the Whitmore estate, trimming the soft blue hydrangeas that bordered the drive.

A summer storm had just passed. Rainwater clung to the leaves, and the dark soil beneath the bushes gave off the rich, clean smell of earth. Behind her, the long driveway curved between rows of trees before disappearing into the wooded property beyond.

Sam noticed her while carrying a box from the moving truck.

Their new house stood along the county road bordering the eastern edge of the Whitmore land. The properties touched, though the houses did not.

Barbara’s home sat deeper within the estate, hidden beyond fields and trees, while the Whitakers’ smaller house rested closer to the road.

The moving truck’s brakes squealed behind him, breaking the quiet.

Barbara looked up.

For a moment, she studied Sam as though trying to decide whether to introduce herself. Then she smiled and lifted one gloved hand.

“You must be the new family.”

Sam shifted the box marked KITCHEN STUFF against his chest.

“That obvious?”

Barbara glanced toward the truck, the open garage, and the collection of furniture scattered across the lawn.

“I took a wild guess.”

Sam laughed.

“Then yes. We’re the Whitakers. I’m Sam.”

He turned toward the driveway, where Mark was wrestling a floor lamp from behind a stack of boxes.

“And that man losing an argument with the lamp is my husband, Mark.”

“I heard that,” Mark called.

He emerged from behind the truck, his dark hair damp from the heat and his face flushed from carrying boxes.

“Hi,” he said, giving Barbara a quick wave. “Sorry about the truck. We’ll have it out of the road as soon as possible.”

“You’re fine,” she assured him. “It’s nice seeing some life over here again.

That house has been empty far too long.”

Sam glanced toward his new home.

The white paint had faded, several shutters hung slightly crooked, and weeds had taken possession of the flower beds. Still, he could already imagine what the place might become.

“We’re hoping it cleans up well.”

Barbara looked past him toward the porch.

“It will. Houses usually respond when someone finally cares for them.”

Something in the way she said it made Sam look at her more closely.

Her smile remained warm, but a tiredness rested behind it—a brief shadow that disappeared almost as soon as he noticed it.

Barbara tucked a damp strand of silver-streaked hair behind one ear.

“I’m Barbara Henry. The Whitmore estate is mine.”

She motioned toward the long drive behind her.

“So technically, I’m your neighbor, although you may need binoculars to borrow a cup of sugar.”

Sam smiled.

“Good. I own binoculars.”

Barbara laughed, and this time the weariness in her face lifted.

“Well, then we’re off to a promising start.”

During the first few weeks, Barbara found reasons to stop by.

She arrived one afternoon carrying a welcome basket wrapped in a red gingham towel. Inside were muffins still warm from the oven, a jar of homemade strawberry jam, and a handwritten note:

If you need anything, I’m just next door—even if my front door is half a mile away.

Sam pinned the note to the refrigerator with a pineapple-shaped magnet.

Mark read it over his shoulder.

“She seems nice.”

“She is nice.”

Mark reached into the basket and took a muffin.

“She also knows exactly when we’re home.”

Sam looked at him.

“Are you calling my new friend nosy?”

“I’m calling your new friend observant.”

“She brought muffins.”

“She can observe us whenever she wants.”

Sam laughed and nudged him away from the basket.

“You’ve already eaten two.”

“I’m protecting the family.”

“From blueberry muffins?”

“They’re more dangerous than they look.”

From then on, Barbara’s visits became part of the rhythm of their new life.

Sometimes she arrived carrying vegetables from the estate garden. Other times she brought paint samples, old photographs of the property, or the name of someone who could repair a chimney without charging them “the price of a small automobile.”

Sam liked her immediately.

Barbara possessed the kind of energy that made an ordinary conversation feel important. She was rarely still. Even while talking, her hands remained busy—deadheading flowers, brushing dirt from her gloves, straightening something that did not need straightening.

She hummed songs Sam recognized but could never name, fragments from another decade drifting through the air before disappearing.

Yet even when Barbara laughed, Sam sometimes noticed the same thing he had seen on the first day.

Her smile did not always reach her eyes.

The Garden

Their friendship truly began with an old fence post.

The eastern edge of Sam’s yard met the Whitmore property along a weathered wooden fence. Beyond it, the estate opened into a narrow meadow

before the forest began. Barbara had planted flowers along that boundary years earlier—peonies, mint, lavender, and rows of hydrangeas that followed the fence toward the trees.

One muggy Saturday morning, Sam was trying to straighten a leaning post when Barbara appeared on the other side. Her garden gloves were tucked into the back pocket of her trousers, and she carried a glass of lemonade.

“You’re going to ruin that shirt,” she said.

Sam looked down at the faded paint streaks across the front.

“It lost the will to live years ago.”

She passed the lemonade between the fence slats.

“Moral support and hydration. I’m a full-service neighbor.”

Sam accepted the glass.

“I’m beginning to understand why Mark likes you.”

“Mark likes my muffins.”

“That too.”

From then on, the fence became their meeting place.

Barbara walked the path from the main house to tend the flowers along the property line. Sam often found her there in the mornings, pruning roses or pulling weeds while birds called from the woods behind her.

They talked across the fence, leaned against its posts, and passed tools, coffee, and cut flowers through the slats.

Whenever Barbara’s laughter drifted through the kitchen window, Mark would glance toward Sam.

“Your girlfriend’s here.”

Sam would look toward the garden.

“She’s too good for me.”

Their friendship was intimate without ever being romantic. It grew from ordinary things: shared coffee, unfinished conversations, and the comfort of standing beside someone without needing to fill every silence.

Sometimes they simply leaned against the fence and listened to the leaves stirring in the trees.

Sam would identify the birds by their calls.

“Carolina wren,” he said one morning.

Barbara looked toward the branches. “How can you possibly know that?”

“It sounds like it’s yelling at someone.”

“That narrows it down.”

He smiled. “You’ll learn.”

Barbara spoke about her plants the way other people spoke about their children. Every one carried a history.

The peonies had come from her grandmother’s garden. The lavender refused to grow no matter how carefully she tended it. The mint had escaped its bed years earlier and was steadily attempting to conquer the estate.

“Plants are honest,” she said once, brushing soil from her palms. “They tell you what they need.”

She looked toward the distant house, barely visible through the trees.

“People aren’t always so generous.”

Sam remembered those words long afterward.

The Cracks

The first time Sam noticed the bruise, summer had begun giving way to fall.

Barbara had driven down from the main house with bags of mulch stacked in the back of her small utility cart. She was reaching for one when the sleeve of her blouse slipped above her elbow.

A dark bruise spread across her upper arm.

Sam looked before he could stop himself.

Barbara followed his gaze and pulled the sleeve down.

“Car door,” she said quickly. “I’m hopeless around those things.”

Her smile was too bright. The laugh that followed sounded thin and practiced.

Sam nodded, but the explanation sat wrong inside him.

He had known people who offered excuses like that—answers prepared before anyone asked the question.

That evening, he told Mark.

They were in bed, Mark reading while Sam sketched in the notebook he kept on his nightstand. He had been trying to capture the shape of a cedar waxwing he had seen that morning, but every line came out too heavy.

“She had a bruise,” Sam said.

Mark lowered his book. “Barbara?”

“On her arm. She said she hit it on a car door.”

“You don’t believe her.”

Sam rubbed the side of his pencil against the paper, darkening the bird’s wing. “I don’t know.”

Mark watched him for a moment. “You think Rex did it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Sam closed the notebook. “She changed when she saw me looking. Like she already knew what she was going to say.”

Mark set his book aside.

“Sam, we don’t know what happens inside their marriage.”

“That’s what worries me.”

“You need to be careful.”

Sam turned toward him. “Careful about what?”

“About deciding it’s your responsibility to save her.”

“I’m not trying to save anyone.”

Mark gave him a look that made it clear he knew better.

Sam stared toward the dark window. Beyond the glass, the Whitmore woods formed a solid black line beneath the night sky.

“She’s my friend.”

“I know.” Mark reached across the bed and rested a hand on Sam’s arm.

“That’s why I’m asking you not to rush into something you don’t understand.

Let her know you’re there. Let her come to you.”

Sam nodded, though the uneasiness remained.

Across the fields and behind the trees, Barbara was alone in the estate house with Rex.

And Sam could not stop thinking about the bruise.

The Dinner

A few weeks later, Barbara invited Sam and Mark to dinner.

They drove through the stone entrance and followed the long, curving driveway beneath a canopy of oak and hickory. The Whitmore house appeared gradually through the trees—large without being showy, its pale stone exterior softened by ivy and years of weather.

Barbara opened the door before they reached it.

“You found us.”

“Barely,” Mark said. “I think we crossed into another time zone halfway up the drive.”

Barbara laughed and ushered them inside.

Rex waited in the entrance hall.

He was tall, broad through the shoulders, with thinning gray hair and a smile that seemed carefully chosen for the occasion.

“Sam and Mark,” he said.

He shook Mark’s hand, then Sam’s. His grip tightened enough to feel deliberate.

“Barbara talks about you.”

“She’s been very kind to us,” Mark said.

Rex glanced toward his wife.

“She’s good at that.”

Barbara’s smile faltered for only a moment.

The dining room overlooked the western gardens. Evening light came through the tall windows, catching on polished silver and the crystal glasses Barbara had arranged with unnecessary precision.

Rex controlled most of the conversation.

He spoke about investments, land values, and various business opportunities that never became specific enough to understand. Barbara remained attentive, refilling glasses before anyone asked and smoothing napkins that were already straight.

Sam watched her hands.

They never stopped moving.

Eventually, Rex turned his attention toward him.

“Barbara says you’re an artist.”

Sam nodded. “Mostly landscapes and wildlife.”

“You make a living doing that?”

“Some years more convincingly than others.”

Mark smiled. “He does well.”

Rex leaned back in his chair.

“I’ve never understood paying for pictures of things that already exist.”

Barbara’s fork paused against her plate.

“Rex.”

“What?” He lifted one shoulder. “I’m asking.”

Sam met his gaze.

“People don’t buy the thing itself. They buy the way someone saw it.”

Rex smiled faintly.

“That sounds like something an artist would say.”

“It would be strange if an accountant said it.”

Mark coughed into his napkin to hide a laugh.

Rex’s eyes shifted between them.

“So how long have you two been together?”

“Seventeen years,” Mark said.

Rex nodded slowly. “Huh.”

The single syllable carried more judgment than surprise.

Barbara reached for the wine bottle.

“Sam has been helping me identify birds around the property. Apparently, I’ve spent sixty-five years surrounded by them without learning a single name.”

“Most people don’t notice what’s right in front of them,” Sam said.

Barbara looked at him.

Rex did too.

The room went quiet.

Then Rex smiled again.

“I always figured your type of people were hairdressers or florists.”

The silence that followed was immediate and complete.

Barbara’s face drained of color.

“Rex.”

“What? It was a joke.”

“No,” Mark said evenly. “It wasn’t.”

Rex’s smile thinned.

Sam felt Mark’s leg press against his beneath the table—a warning not to engage further.

Barbara rose too quickly and reached for the plates.

“I’ll bring out dessert.”

Sam stood. “Let me help.”

“I’ve got it.”

She gathered the dishes with unsteady hands and disappeared into the kitchen.

Rex lifted his wine as though nothing had happened.

When dinner finally ended, Barbara walked them to the front door.

She hugged Mark first, then Sam.

Her perfume carried the familiar scent of lilac and lemon, but beneath it Sam caught something sharper—fear, though fear had no scent he could name.

“Thank you for coming,” she whispered.

“You don’t have to thank us,” Sam said.

Barbara stepped back and glanced toward the dining room.

Rex remained inside, watching through the open doorway.

“You know where to find us,” Sam said.

Barbara looked at him again.

“I always do.”

The door closed softly behind them.

Mark waited until they were inside the car before speaking.

“That man is an ass.”

Sam looked back at the house.

Barbara’s silhouette remained visible behind the glass.

“He’s worse than that.”

The Confession

Nearly a year passed before Barbara spoke openly about Rex.

Spring returned to the estate, bringing new growth along the fence line. The hydrangeas filled out again, and birds nested in the trees bordering Sam’s property.

One humid evening, Barbara stood watering the flowers while fireflies blinked above the meadow.

Sam leaned against the fence, watching her.

She had been unusually quiet. The watering wand remained pointed at the same plant long after the soil had darkened.

“He isn’t always like that,” she said.

Sam knew immediately who she meant. “Rex?”

Barbara nodded. “He’s had difficult years. Business hasn’t gone the way he expected. He feels trapped here.”

“On a hundred and fifty acres?”

A brief smile touched her mouth, then disappeared. “You know what I mean.”

“I do.”

She turned off the water. For a moment, only the evening insects and the distant call of a mourning dove filled the silence.

“Sometimes things build inside him,” she said. “Pressure. Frustration. Then something small happens and—” She stopped.

Sam watched her twist the hose between her hands.

“And what?”

Barbara looked toward the woods. “He loses his temper.”

Sam waited. She did not continue.

“You don’t deserve whatever he does when that happens.”

Her eyes filled, though no tears fell.

“Maybe I provoke him.”

“No.”

“You don’t know what I’m like to live with.”

“I know enough.”

Barbara gave a tired laugh. “No, Sam. You know the version of me that tends flowers and delivers muffins.”

“I know my friend.”

The hose slipped from her hand and fell into the grass. Sam wanted to cross the fence. He wanted to put his arms around her and tell her she could leave that night, that Mark would make up the guest room and Rex would never touch her again.

But Mark’s warning returned to him.

Let her come to you.

So Sam stayed where he was.

“If you ever need somewhere to go,” he said, “our door is open. Day or night.

You don’t need to explain anything first.”

Barbara lowered her eyes.

“You can’t fix people, Sam.”

“I’m not trying to fix him.”

“You always want to repair things.”

“I paint birds for a living. I’m not as useful as you think.”

That drew a small, genuine laugh from her.

Then she looked at him, and the humor faded.

“You’re a good man.”

Barbara bent and lifted a small potted hydrangea from beside the fence. Its leaves were bright green, but there were no blossoms yet.

She passed it through the opening between the posts.

“I started this one from a cutting.”

Sam accepted the pot.

“What’s the occasion?”

“For luck.”

“I could use some.”

“So you don’t forget me when the seasons change.”

Sam frowned. “I’m not going to forget you.”

Barbara looked toward the main house, barely visible through the trees.

“No,” she said softly. “I suppose you won’t.”

He planted the hydrangea beneath the kitchen window that weekend.

The following spring, it bloomed white.

The Drift

After that evening, Barbara became harder to reach.

Some weeks she appeared at the fence nearly every morning. Then days passed without any sign of her.

The curtains of the estate house remained drawn more often. Rex’s car disappeared for several days at a time, then sat outside without moving for weeks.

Sam still saw Barbara walking the old garden paths or driving toward the mailbox, but she moved with a guarded purpose. Her smiles came quickly and vanished just as fast. Once, Sam found a shattered flowerpot near the estate entrance. Dark soil and red petunias covered the wet stone.

He had begun gathering the pieces when Barbara appeared farther up the drive. Her hair was uncombed. One side of her face looked swollen.

“Sam.”

He stood. “What happened?”

“Please don’t.”

He looked at the broken pot, then back at her.

“Barbara—”

“Not today.” Her voice trembled.

Sam wanted to ignore the request. Every instinct told him to walk up that drive, enter the house, and confront Rex.

But Barbara shook her head. Not today. Sam set the broken piece back onto the ground.

“Okay.” He stepped away.

Barbara remained where she was until he crossed beyond the stone entrance.

Then she turned and walked back toward the house.

The trees swallowed her before she reached it.

The Last Conversation

The last time Sam spoke to Barbara, autumn had stripped most of the color from the estate.

She was tending the roses along the eastern boundary, bundled in a sweater several sizes too large. The sky hung pale and gray above the fields, and wood smoke drifted from somewhere beyond the county road.

Sam approached the fence carrying his binoculars.

“Need help?”

Barbara looked up, startled.

For a moment, he saw fear in her face.

Then she recognized him.

“No. I’m only trying to keep them alive a little longer.”

Sam glanced toward the roses. Their remaining blooms had browned at the edges.

“How is Rex?”

Barbara’s gaze shifted toward the distant house.

“He’s home.”

The way she said it made the word sound like a warning.

Sam lowered the binoculars.

“You know you can come to us.”

“I know.”

“Mark makes a mean lasagna.”

Her smile deepened just enough to hurt him.

“I know that too.”

“Then come over tonight.”

Barbara looked down at the pruning shears in her hands.

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“It isn’t that simple.”

“It could be.”

She shook her head.

Sam rested one hand on the top of the fence.

“Tell me what you need.”

Barbara set the shears down.

For a long moment, she studied him as though trying to memorize his face.

Then she said, “You’re a good neighbor, Sam.”

He attempted a smile.

“That sounds dangerously close to a goodbye.”

Barbara’s eyes glistened.

“Don’t ever stop being that.”

Before Sam could ask what she meant, the sound of a door slamming carried from the main house.

Barbara turned toward it.

Her shoulders stiffened.

“Barbara—”

“I have to go.”

She gathered the shears and walked quickly along the garden path.

Sam remained at the fence, watching until she disappeared among the trees.

That was the last time they spoke.

Next: Chapter Two

The Fall

The smell of pancakes meant Saturday.

Butter hissed against the cast-iron skillet while warm vanilla and rising batter filled the kitchen. Sunlight came through the window above the sink, catching on flour dust and the thin trail of steam rising from Sam’s coffee.

“Two more minutes,” he called. “Anyone late gets the burnt one.”

Mark shuffled into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from his eyes. At forty-five, he still woke looking personally offended by the existence of mornings.

“I’ll take the burnt one,” he said. “I like them with character.”

Eli sat slumped at the table, one hand holding up his head. His dark hair fell across his forehead, and his expression carried the particular exhaustion of a twelve-year-old who had been forced to wake before noon.

“That isn’t character,” he muttered. “That’s carbon.”

“Carbon is essential to life,” Sam said.

“Not in pancakes.”

Eli reached for the syrup.

Nora slid onto the bench beside him, still wearing her unicorn pajamas. At ten, she had already developed strong opinions about nearly everything, especially breakfast.

“Can mine have a smiley face?”

Sam flipped a pancake onto her plate.

“It already does. It’s just upside down.”

Nora studied it.

“That’s cheating.”

“She gets that from you,” Mark said, reaching for the coffee.

“Her commitment to justice?”

“Her need to argue with the person feeding her.”

Nora pointed her fork at him. “You burn cereal.”

Mark stopped pouring.

“That happened once.”

“Twice,” Eli said.

“The second time was not my fault.”

Sam glanced over his shoulder. “How does cereal catch fire without it being your fault?”

Mark narrowed his eyes. “I was distracted.”

“By what?”

“By you.” He leaned over, kissed Sam’s shoulder, and stole a pancake from the stack.

Sam laughed. “Smooth. Almost forgives the crime against Cheerios.”

Eli looked at Nora and pretended to gag.

“Gross.”

“That’s called love,” Sam said.

“That’s called middle-aged romance.”

Mark placed the coffeepot down. “Middle-aged? You want your allowance this century or the next?”

Sam carried the pancakes to the table before the argument could grow legs.

“All right. Eat before I turn this into a lecture about respecting your elders.”

“You already did,” Mark said.

The four of them settled into the familiar noise of breakfast—forks against plates, Nora complaining that Eli had taken the best pancake, Mark defending his coffee as though anyone had challenged it.

Sam looked around the table and felt the quiet satisfaction he rarely knew how to explain.

This was the life he had wanted.

Not perfect. Never quiet. Usually one minor disaster away from chaos.

But theirs.

Later, the kitchen remained pleasantly wrecked. Plates crowded the sink.

Syrup had hardened along one edge of the table, and a dusting of flour marked the floor where Sam had dropped the mixing bowl.

Eli disappeared upstairs with his video game.

Nora sat at the table drawing birds from one of Sam’s field guides. She colored a blue jay purple, then argued that nature had missed an opportunity.

Mark leaned against the counter, watching Sam pack his binoculars, sketchbook, water bottle, and camera into a weathered canvas bag.

“You’re going up there again?”

Sam checked the side pocket for extra pencils.

“The weather is perfect.”

“The weather is always perfect when you want to disappear into the woods.”

“I don’t disappear.”

“You become unreachable in a place with questionable stairs.”

Sam looked up. “The tower is safe.”

“The tower was abandoned before we bought this house.”

“It was retired.”

“Buildings don’t retire. They decay.”

Sam slung the strap over one shoulder.

“The county reinforced the stairs.”

“When?”

Sam hesitated.

Mark folded his arms.

“Exactly.”

The old fire-lookout tower stood on a wooded ridge near the northern edge of the Whitmore estate. Years earlier, it had been used to watch for smoke during the dry season. The county no longer staffed it, but the structure remained open to hikers and birdwatchers willing to make the climb.

From the top, Sam could see for miles.

The Whitmore house sat below and to the west, partially concealed by trees.

His own home was farther east along the county road. Between them stretched acres of woodland, meadow, and narrow trails that disappeared beneath the canopy.

The tower had become one of Sam’s favorite places to draw.

Mark stepped closer and adjusted the collar of Sam’s shirt.

“Take your phone.”

“It’s in the bag.”

“On your body, Sam. A phone inside a bag does nothing when the bag is at the top and you’re at the bottom.”

“That is a very specific tragedy you’ve invented.”

“I’m married to you. I prepare.”

Sam smiled and slipped the phone into his back pocket.

“Happy?”

“No.”

“Reassured?”

“Barely.”

Mark kissed him.

It was quick and ordinary—the kind of kiss exchanged by people who assumed there would be another one later.

“Be home for dinner,” Mark said.

“What are you making?”

“Reservations.”

“Excellent choice.”

Nora looked up from the table.

“Bring me a feather.”

“I’ll see what I can find.”

“A purple one.”

“No promises.”

Eli called from upstairs. “Bring me nothing.”

Sam looked toward the ceiling.

“I’ll treasure that request.” He opened the back door and stepped into the morning.

Behind him, Mark called, “And don’t fall off anything.”

Sam turned, walking backward across the porch.

“I have no plans to.”

“That has never reassured me.”

Sam laughed, lifted one hand, and headed toward the trail.

The storm from the night before had washed the heat from the air.

Water still clung to the undergrowth, and sunlight filtered through the trees in broken patches. The trail climbed gradually at first, weaving between oak, cedar, and hickory before steepening near the ridge.

Sam stopped often.

A red-bellied woodpecker moved along the trunk of a dead tree. Two chickadees argued somewhere above him. Farther into the woods, a barred owl called once from the shade, sounding offended by the daylight.

Sam lifted his binoculars and searched the branches.

Birdwatching had taught him patience.

Painting required the same thing. You waited for the light to change, for the animal to turn its head, for the moment when an ordinary scene revealed what made it worth remembering.

At the base of the tower, Sam looked up.

The wooden lookout room sat high above the ridge, supported by a narrow framework of darkened beams. The lower stairs had been replaced, but higher sections still carried the silver-gray color of weathered wood.

A small sign warned visitors to climb at their own risk.

Sam touched it as he passed.

“Duly noted.”

The tower shifted faintly beneath the wind as he climbed.

By the time he reached the top, his breathing had deepened and sweat cooled between his shoulder blades. He pushed open the door to the lookout room and stepped inside.

Windows surrounded him on all four sides.

The view opened in every direction—woods rolling beneath the blue sky, fields cut into broad green shapes, the county road appearing and disappearing between trees.

To the east, Sam could make out the pale roof of his home.

To the west, beyond the dense line of forest, the upper story of the Whitmore house rose above the trees.

He set his bag down, opened his sketchbook, and placed the binoculars beside it.

For the next hour, Sam worked in near silence.

He sketched the curve of the ridge and the distant shadow of the estate house.

He made quick studies of birds moving between the branches: a nuthatch, a pair of cardinals, the sharp silhouette of a hawk circling above the fields.

His phone vibrated in his pocket.

A message from Mark:

Still alive?

Sam smiled and typed back:

Disappointingly.

A moment later:

Dinner at six. Try not to become a cautionary tale before then.

Sam slipped the phone away.

The woods settled around him.

Wind moved through the tower, carrying the smell of wet bark and sun- warmed pine. Somewhere below, branches rustled.

Then came a sharp, hollow knocking.

Sam froze.

Three distinct strikes carried through the trees.

He lifted his head.

The sound came again.

Not the rapid tapping of the smaller woodpeckers he knew. This was heavier.

Deliberate. Almost like someone striking dead wood with a short length of pipe.

Sam reached slowly for his binoculars.

“No way,” he whispered.

A large bird moved through the upper canopy below the western ridge.

For a moment, he saw only black wings and a flash of white. Then it landed against the trunk of an old tree, its body long and angular, the white markings on its folded wings stark against the dark bark.

Sam stopped breathing.

The crest.

The pale bill.

The impossible size of it.

An ivory-billed woodpecker.

The bird had occupied the first page of Sam’s private list for years—not because he truly expected to see one, but because every birdwatcher needed one impossible hope.

He raised the binoculars.

“Come on,” he whispered. “Turn around.”

The bird climbed the trunk in short, powerful movements.

Sam’s hands began to tremble. He reached blindly for his camera but was afraid to lower the binoculars long enough to find it.

The bird launched from the tree. Sam followed.

It crossed an opening in the canopy, black-and-white wings flashing, then flew toward the deeper woods of the Whitmore estate.

“Don’t disappear.”

Sam stepped onto the exterior walkway surrounding the lookout room.

The wooden boards creaked beneath his boots.

He kept the binoculars fixed on the bird as it moved from tree to tree. It landed briefly, lifted again, then crossed above the western meadow toward the Whitmore house.

Sam followed along the railing.

The bird settled on a bare branch near the house.

For several seconds, it remained perfectly visible against the pale stone exterior.

Sam smiled, stunned by his own luck.

Then movement appeared in one of the upstairs windows behind it.

At first, Sam paid no attention.

He was still watching the bird.

A pale shape crossed behind the glass. The curtains shifted. Another figure entered the room.

The bird flew.

Sam moved the binoculars to follow it—but something in the window stopped him.

Two people struggled behind the curtains.

Sam adjusted the focus.

Barbara came into view.

Her face was turned toward the window, eyes wide with terror. Rex stood behind her with one arm locked around her throat. His other hand covered her mouth as she clawed at his wrist.

For one impossible moment, Sam could not understand what he was seeing.

Then Barbara’s knees buckled.

“Rex.”

The name left Sam as little more than breath.

Rex tightened his arm.

Barbara struck at him, once, then again. Her movements weakened.

Sam lowered the binoculars and stared toward the distant house with his naked eyes. From that distance, the window was only a pale rectangle among the trees.

He raised them again.

Barbara’s face filled the glass.

“Barbara!”

His voice vanished into the open air.

Rex could not hear him.

No one could.

Sam fumbled for his phone with one hand, refusing to take his eyes from the window.

The phone caught against his pocket.

“Come on.”

His fingers finally closed around it.

The binoculars slipped from one hand and struck the railing before swinging from the strap around his neck.

Sam stepped backward, trying to unlock the phone.

The screen would not recognize his thumb.

“Come on. Come on.”

Through the window, Rex dragged Barbara away from the glass.

Sam turned toward the lookout room, intending to grab his camera— anything that could record what he had seen.

His heel struck a loose board.

The wood shifted beneath him.

Sam reached for the railing.

His palm caught only air.

The phone flew from his hand.

For an instant, he remained suspended between balance and falling, his body tilted beyond the point where it could recover.

Then the railing slammed against his side and gave way.

The world dropped.

Sam caught one glimpse of blue sky.

One glimpse of the tower rushing past him.

His shoulder struck a crossbeam, spinning him sideways. Branches tore at his clothes as the ground rose through broken flashes of green and sunlight.

Mark.

Eli.

Nora.

The names came without sound.

Then everything stopped.

When Sam opened his eyes, he was standing beneath the tower.

He drew in a sharp breath and looked upward.

The platform seemed impossibly high.

One section of railing hung broken above him. His binoculars dangled from a branch halfway down, turning slowly in the breeze.

“That was close.”

His voice sounded strange in the stillness.

He touched his side, expecting pain.

There was none.

His phone lay several feet away in the leaves, its screen shattered.

Barbara.

The memory struck him whole.

Sam bent to pick up the phone.

His fingers passed through it.

He jerked his hand back.

For a moment, he only stared.

Then he noticed the body.

A man lay twisted at the base of the tower, one arm beneath him, his head turned at an unnatural angle. The canvas bag had landed nearby, its contents scattered across the wet ground.

A sketchbook.

Pencils.

A camera.

A bottle of water leaking slowly into the leaves.

Sam took one step closer.

The man wore his clothes.

“No.”

He looked down at himself, then back at the body.

“No.”

He knelt beside it.

His own face stared past him, eyes open but seeing nothing.

Sam reached for the man’s shoulder.

His hand disappeared through the fabric.

“No. No, get up.”

He tried again.

Nothing moved.

From somewhere down the trail came the distant sound of voices.

“Sam?”

Mark.

Sam stood so quickly that he nearly lost his balance, though the ground no longer seemed certain beneath him.

“Mark!”

Branches cracked along the trail.

Mark emerged from the trees, followed by Eli and Nora. They had likely come looking when Sam failed to answer his phone. Mark saw the scattered belongings first.

Then the body.

His face changed.

“Sam.”

The word broke apart as it left him.

Mark ran the final distance and fell to his knees.

Nora screamed.

Eli stopped several feet away, frozen, his face draining of color.

Mark pressed two fingers against Sam’s neck, then placed both hands against his chest.

“Call 911,” he shouted.

Eli did not move.

“Eli!”

The boy fumbled for his phone.