The thing about growing up in a town like Gaffney is that you catch boredom like a virus. As soon as you return, it clings to you once again—a bloodthirsty tick happily reuniting with your skin. It was not as though I hadn't been forewarned.

When the shrill sound of the house phone invaded my sleep days ago, I had turned over, squinted at the glowing numbers of my cable box—three-fifteen a.m.—and snapped to attention. There is only one acceptable reason for someone to be calling at that unholy hour, and that reason is death. My heart had hammered against my ribs. Dad. I had always suspected his liver condition would eventually do him in. It did. They found him lying on the cold floor of his office, his dead fingers still clutching a glass of the finest Lagavulin. I guess he died doing what he loved most—drinking.

And if this stinking, clattering bus from Greenville to Gaffney crashes into the vomit-green truck in front of us, I am about to die doing what I hate most—casually conversing with a complete stranger.

The elderly woman to my right had been staring at me since I sat down. I could just tell she was one of those people who take the sheer fact of your breathing as an explicit invitation to start up a conversation.

No eye contact.

I let the words play on repeat in my head like a protective ward as I dug around in my bag for my iPod. I always keep it on me, even though it is a model that Apple hasn't manufactured in seven years and the screen is a spiderweb of shattered glass.

A sudden, sharp pressure built behind my nose. The woman stirred, the fabric of her seat groaning.

No eye contact. And definitely do not—

I sneezed. Damn it.

"Bless you, honey! Hot, isn't it?"

The woman began fanning herself with a gigantic prop that resembled the iridescent wing of some monstrous beetle. She reminded me of my late grandmother: she was all brittle bones, her bird-like arms jutting out from a too-big pink cardigan. She was ancient, yet she looked more likely to be lingering around a high-end Clinique counter than sitting at the community center on bingo night.

I gave her a noncommittal nod, hoping the silence would swallow her next words. Instead, she smiled, a slow, predatory baring of teeth, and shifted in her seat until her shoulder brushed my armrest. The bus groaned as it took a sharp turn, the smell of damp vinyl and old upholstery rising up to choke me. I tried to see myself through her eyes: greasy hair thrown into a messy bun, black pants, and a faded black V-neck—my designated travel uniform. A single, battered backpack was wedged between my feet. I must have looked like a stray urchin to her, complete with unkempt hair, a busted lip, and skin that hadn't seen daylight in months.

She swiveled her fan around once more for emphasis, and for a second, it looked as though her frail wrists would snap under its weight. Each rib of the fan ended in a sharp, exposed point, giving the edge a serrated, dangerous look, like the spiny legs of a praying mantis. As she waved it, it stirred the stagnant air with surprising, violent force. It sent a freezing draft swirling around my neck, momentarily distracting me from the grim thoughts spiraling in my mind.

I couldn't help but wonder: was the crushing sadness I felt truly for my father's death, or was it for the death of a younger version of myself—a girl I had buried years ago and never quite gotten over?

A "Welcome to Gaffney" sign swooped past the window, acting as a lucky rescue from an unwanted exchange of what's-your-names and what-do-you-dos. Our trusty, rusty vehicle finally groaned to a halt. The sliding doors of the bus station hissed open, releasing a hiss of pneumatic air and unleashing me into the oppressive summer heat.

I snatched my backpack, stretched my aching legs, and took a reluctant step toward the squat brick building baking under the relentless South Carolina sun. The air was thick and syrupy, heavy with the suffocating scent of stale coffee, asphalt, and exhaust fumes. The aroma hit the back of my throat and almost made me gag.

Still adjusting to the blinding glare, I scanned the sparse crowd until my gaze landed on him.

Tom.

Even after ten years of complete estrangement, I would recognize that sharp, red-haired silhouette anywhere. My brother had not softened with age. If anything, the lines carved into his face seemed even more pronounced, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked carved from granite. Beside him stood a woman who could not have been more different. Where Tom was angular and composed of hard, unforgiving shapes, she was oval and soft, a collection of gentle curves and maternal swells. Her rounded baby bump was a tender, welcoming contrast to the harsh concrete of the station. She made me think of a plump robin, or perhaps one of those impossibly sweet animated Disney princesses—overexaggerated hazel eyes, peanut-brown hair, and a dusting of freckles across her cheeks. Her nose was rubbed raw and red, as if she had been weeping for hours.

"Rhiannon." Tom's cool, clipped nod said everything he refused to vocalize: You don't belong here.

Two could play that game.

"Thomas." I nodded back, suppressing a wicked urge to offer him a mocking curtsy.

"This is my wife, Beverly," he told me matter-of-factly, his tone mimicking someone tossing a dry bone to a stray dog.

Lovely. A sister-in-law and a future niece-slash-nephew I knew absolutely nothing about. Yet, as I stared at them, a bitter taste rose in my mouth; I couldn't deny it was partly my fault, too. I had run away and never looked back. I attempted to force a smile and gave her outstretched hand an awkward, wooden shake.

Beverly made a deeply sympathetic face, muttering a string of soft, rehearsed condolences. The poor thing probably thought I was heartbroken about my father's passing.

The little girl version of Rhiannon might have been upset. That version would have cried and screamed for her daddy, just like she did the night he drank until he passed out on the kitchen tile, leaving her unsure if the monster who ruled our house was ever going to wake up again. But not me. The only thing that truly upset me was being dragged back into the suffocating atmosphere of this backwater town, a place where no one had ever understood me, let alone supported me.

No one but Cindy.

My lovable, beautifully insane best friend. But even that memory was tarnished. Once we had started high school, the red Solo cups in her Facebook pictures had begun popping up like poisonous mushrooms after a heavy rain. When I finally escaped to Canada for college, I had called Cindy every single day for three months. Every time, her mother answered the line with a voice like vinegar. Cindy was always at twirling practice, or riding bikes with Bonnie Andrysiak, or finishing up her homework. Or... otherwise indisposed.

Eventually, I tried her socials. She still used the same username she had used since we were ten years old—cinjustwannahavefun. I had created a burner account and messaged her directly: "It's me, Rhi. How have you been?"

She never responded. The message sat there, unread, an eternal digital ghost.

Welcome back to Gaffney, Rhiannon Carmichael. Where everyone makes it their life's mission to know your business. Where dreams go to rot under the crushing weight of small-town expectations. I had always been the resident misfit here, my passions dismissed as foolish flights of fancy. All those judgmental stares and whispered pieces of gossip that had followed me through the streets like a persistent shadow—I had almost forgotten about them.

Almost.

When the torturous, suffocatingly silent car ride finally ended, the first thing I saw was the Sacred Heart Catholic Church. It was a sad, decaying old thing, its stained-glass windows busted out and its brickwork frayed at the edges like a rotting shroud. It takes a certain type of stubborn, masochistic person to live across the street from a ruin like that and never complain about the blight.

Tom, Beverly, and I arrived at the funeral home at six-thirty, half an hour before my father's wake was set to begin. There was already a line of vehicles snaking into the parking lot and not a single free space, so we wound up parking a dark block away.

Most of the surrounding storefronts were completely blacked out. The blue ribbons people had tied around the streetlamps and telephone poles fluttered limply in the stale breeze. Outside the church across the street, a makeshift memorial had been erected. Cheap LED tea lights flickered weakly on dying batteries, surrounded by freshly picked flowers that were already wilting in the heat. Handwritten messages of grief were taped to the stone, all dedicated to Victor Carmichael—the supposed pillar of this community.

At the absolute center of the display was a framed portrait. I paused before it, my gaze drawn irresistibly to the man who had once been the terrifying center of my universe. My father's image was frozen in time. His piercing blue eyes seemed to stare directly through the glass, creating a cold, heavy pit in my stomach. Standing there, it felt as though I had failed a vital test I hadn't even known I was taking. It was as if his ghost were silently chiding me from the frame, reminding me of every single way I had ever disappointed him. For a fleeting second, my very being split cleanly into two—the Rhiannon-that-was and the Rhiannon-that-is. The haunted past and the bitter present touched their fingertips through the glass.

Inside, the viewing room was already packed to capacity. I knew Victor Carmichael's body was on display at the front, but I still couldn't bring myself to cross that threshold. I let Tom and Beverly pass me by, and I lingered in the wood-paneled lobby like a stray dog waiting to be kicked.

The air in the lobby was thick with the cloying, suffocating scent of cheap lilies and damp wool. I felt gross, like an invasive species of bacteria disrupting a sterile environment. I could feel the invisible weight of the room shifting; everyone in this funeral home must hate me, I reasoned. They probably blamed me for what had happened to my father, even if they didn't yet know I had officially returned.

Suddenly, a cold hand touched my shoulder, startling me so badly that I almost swung around to punch the person behind me.

"Mom."

She silently drifted into my embrace with the quiet, tragic grace of a porcelain doll—a tall, frail, blonde figure completely shrouded in a heavy veil of mourning. Her skin was the color of ancient parchment, translucent and so delicate I could trace the faint blue veins beneath her temples. Her eyes held a timeless, hollow sadness. There was an ethereal, ghostly quality about her now, a profound sense of otherworldly fragility that made it seem as though a strong gust of wind might blow her away entirely.

Mom was wearing far more makeup than usual, a thick mask undoubtedly applied to disguise the raw redness around her eyes. When we finally pulled apart, she leaned in and whispered, "Thank you, Rhi. I truly thought you wouldn't come."

Then, she looked up at the high frosted window like a fairy trapped in an iron cage—a creature of myth and legend who was missing only a magic wand to wave away the overwhelming pain and sorrow of her reality.

"Snuffed out like a candle, my dear, he was. Whoosh. Just like that."

"Whoosh," I repeated after her, a sudden, unexpected wave of sadness worming its way into my heart. It wasn't so much for my father, but for her. The fairy kingdom had lost its tyrant king, and the queen looked as though she didn't possess the strength to go on without his orders.

"Would you like to go up and say goodbye?" Mom asked softly.

Before I could form an answer, a voice from the cockroach-colored crowd of mourners bellowed, "Lorraine!" and she was instantly whisked away from me, carried off into the sea of sorrows by a pair of weeping neighbors.

I swallowed hard, forcing the lump down my throat, and slowly approached the open casket.

Here he was. Victor Carmichael in the flesh. My father. The man who used to live, breathe, and laugh with a booming, terrifying resonance. The man who had mocked, controlled, and issued absolute orders from his leather armchair. Now, he was reduced to a perfectly still, silent heap of meat and bone resting on white satin.

I forced myself to look closer.

The undertaker had clearly done his best, but the heavy stage makeup couldn't entirely mask the subtle, unnatural yellow tinge that stained his skin—a sickly, jaundiced hue that reminded me of old, decaying parchment. My trained nurse instincts, buried beneath years of familial trauma, suddenly kicked into overdrive. I leaned forward, my eyes narrowing.

It wasn't just his face; even his hands, resting stiffly and unnaturally across his chest, possessed that same strange, synthetic pallor. A faint, almost sweet odor drifted up from the depths of the casket. It was something vaguely medicinal, yet underneath the chemicals, it smelled completely... off. It was an metallic, almond-like scent that I couldn't quite place, but it made the fine hairs on the back of my neck prickle with immediate danger.

Then, as I scanned his skin, I noticed it—a fine, faint scattering of tiny, purplish spots clustered beneath the skin on his wrists, almost like burst capillaries or petechiae. They were incredibly small, easily missed by the untrained eye of a grieving relative, but they were undeniably there.

A sudden, freezing chill ran down my spine. Liver failure, the attending doctor had ruled. But something about this visual evidence... something felt profoundly wrong. These clinical details—the rapid onset of the yellow skin, the strange, sweet smell, the distinct tiny marks—did not add up to a standard cirrhotic death. A dark seed of suspicion sprouted and took root in my mind.

What had really happened to my father?

"Oh my God!" Beverly gasps next to me, the sound somewhere between a horrified whisper and a sharp shriek, violently interrupting my train of thought.

"Come here," Tom said, his arms opening pincer-wide as he pulled her roughly into a protective hug. It had to be the absolute first time in my life I had ever witnessed any semblance of tenderness coming from my brother.

Whatever—or whoever—Beverly had just seen prompted her to let out a ragged noise like air hissing violently from a punctured valve.

Turning my head, I finally saw her too. But at first glance, I didn't understand what all the dramatic fuss was about.

A young, striking blonde stood near one of the catering tables. In her manicured hand, she held a plastic toothpick, casually spearing an anemic-looking slice of tomato from a silver buffet tray. She wore an emerald-green, figure-hugging dress—a vibrant, shocking statement that acted as a deliberate provocation against the somber sea of black and gray mourners. As her deep, almost vampiric red lips curved into a subtle, knowing smile, her sharp, predatory gaze remained fixed entirely on my mother. The woman was an obvious interloper, clearly enjoying the chaotic discomfort she was so expertly sowing in the room.

Tom looked absolutely livid, angry red splotches blooming across his neck like a rash. "What the hell is she doing here? Who invited her?"

And more importantly, who exactly was she?

"You got something to say?" the blonde demanded, her voice cutting through the ambient murmurs of the room.

Mom lowered the finger sandwich she had been taking tiny, nervous hamster-bites out of. "What are you talking about, Aubrey?"

"You keep looking over at me," 'Aubrey' spat, stepping forward. "Say what you have to say to my face, bitch!"

The venomous use of the derogatory word triggered something volatile inside my mother. With a sudden, terrifying burst of movement, she lifted her arm and violently swiped everything off the table in front of the blonde. Trays of food crashed to the carpet, appetizers and glass plates flying everywhere in a chaotic explosion. The sandwich fell from my mother's trembling hand, landing face-down on the floor.

"Oh, shit," I heard myself mutter under my breath.

Aubrey's face flushed a deep, furious crimson. With a giant, ridiculous ribbon pinned in her hair and her freckled cheeks scrunched up in rage, she looked like a very tall toddler on the verge of a massive tantrum.

The resulting silence in the viewing room was deafening, settling over the crowd as though the quiet itself had a life of its own.

Weirdly enough, the physical fight that was about to go down in the middle of the parlor wasn't what worried me the most.

It was the sudden, absolute certainty that Victor Carmichael had been murdered.

With my gaze locked onto my father's still, lifeless form, I realized exactly what I had to do. It was time to rewrite the family fairy tale, but this time, the ending would be entirely mine. And I would make sure it wasn't happy.

While everyone's attention was distracted by the screaming match breaking out near the buffet, I moved with a practiced, clinical stillness—a ghost gliding seamlessly toward the polished mahogany of the casket. The shadows of the heavy velvet curtains draped over me, shielding me from the room.

My hand trembled with a cocktail of adrenaline and dread as I reached deep into my purse, my fingers wrapping around the cold metal of a small, sterile pair of surgical scissors. The metallic scent of the casket grew stronger as I leaned over the edge. A lock of his hair, just behind his left ear, was thick and dark. I held my breath, the cloying scent of lilies and embalming fluid thick and suffocating in my nostrils, threatening to choke out the air in my lungs.

With a swift, precise, and practiced snip, I clipped a small section of the hair, keeping it barely noticeable to any future inspector. I pulled my hand back, feeling the coarse strands against my palm, and tucked the evidence securely into my pocket.

The game was officially afoot, and Gaffney was about to become a very dangerous place.