The fog did not lift by morning.
It clung to Ridgewood like a secret, winding through the bare branches, curling around fences and chimneys, softening the sharp edges of the town beneath a heavy hush. The sky hung low, gray and unmoving, as if even the clouds were holding their breath.
Julia stood on her porch, her coffee cooling between her hands, staring at the empty street. The silence was deceptive. Ridgewood had never been truly quiet—just good at pretending.
Her phone buzzed again on the railing beside her. The third message from Sheriff Harlan.
Call me, Julia. We need to talk. Today.
About the tape. About the locket. About the body buried in the woods that she had somehow known was there.
But how could she explain something she did not understand herself?
Instead of replying,
