WHISPERING OF THE PAST

The envelope felt heavier than it should have.

Rose didn't open it right away.

She waited until she was back at her apartment — barefoot, coat discarded, the silence around her brittle and thick. The crystal vase still sat untouched on the shelf, catching the moonlight like a wound. She stared at it for a long time.

Then she sat down at the kitchen table, unsealed the envelope, and unfolded the single slip of paper inside.

One name.

Samuel Whitlock.

Her breath hitched.

She stared at the paper, waiting for her brain to correct what her eyes had just seen.

But it didn't change.

Whitlock.

That was impossible.

Mr. Crane had told her — he was dead. Died of a heart attack. Official reports. An obituary. A closed casket.

But the name in the envelope wasn't dated. It wasn't framed with sympathy or mourning.

It was a message.

A thread.

A door she hadn't known was still open.

Rose sat frozen for a long time, fingers trembling slightly. Why would Silvio give me this? What did he know? And why now?

She didn't sleep that night.

By morning, she had reached out to an old contact — a former journalist she'd met through her gallery circles. Within two hours, she had a result: a rural estate under a shell company. No listed owners. Quietly purchased six months ago.

In Vermont.

The same state where Whitlock's supposed death had occurred.

Her hands shook as she booked a flight.

She didn't tell Jake.

Didn't tell Crane.

Didn't even tell herself what she hoped to find.

By late afternoon, she stood outside a high metal gate in the middle of thick pine woods. The air smelled like frost and old stone. Through the trees, a sprawling home sat silent. No signs of life — but also no signs of decay.

It didn't feel abandoned.

She stepped forward, pressed the buzzer once.

No answer.

Twice.

Nothing.

She was turning away when the gate clicked.

Slowly, it opened.

Rose hesitated, but stepped through.

Halfway up the gravel path, the front door opened — and a man stepped out.

Older. Thinner. But unmistakable.

Samuel Whitlock.

Alive.

Her vision tunneled. Her skin went cold.

He blinked when he saw her — like he'd seen a ghost.

And maybe he had.

"Rose," he said slowly, voice quiet but unmistakably his. "You shouldn't be here."

She stared at him, stunned. "You… you're supposed to be dead."

"I was," he said. "For most people."

She took a step forward. "Why?"

"Because it was necessary."

"For who?"

Whitlock sighed, stepping aside. "You should come in."

"I'd rather stand," she said sharply.

He didn't argue.

"You lied," she said. "You faked your death. You ran from everything — from what you did to my parents."

His expression didn't shift. "Your parents were involved in things you still don't understand."

"I understand enough," she said, voice rising. "I know you helped orchestrate their murder. I know you covered it up. I know you made sure I had nothing left."

Whitlock's voice was flat. "And what do you think you'll do now? Turn me in? There's no body. No evidence. And no one with the power to challenge what's already buried."

"Silvio knows," she said. "He sent me."

That got a reaction.

Whitlock's jaw tightened. "Then you're already in too deep."

Rose narrowed her eyes. "What does that mean?"

Whitlock's voice dropped. "You don't understand the man you're playing with. Silvio doesn't help people. He watches them. Studies them. He gives just enough truth to see what you'll do with it."

She said nothing.

"He didn't give you my name out of mercy," Whitlock continued. "He gave it to you because he wants to see how far you'll go. And when you go too far—he'll either own you... or eliminate you."

Rose's fists clenched.

"Why are you warning me?"

"Because your mother was my friend once," Whitlock said softly. "And because I know what comes next."

She turned without another word.

She didn't need more answers.

She had enough for now.

As she walked back through the woods, heart pounding, one thought echoed louder than the snow beneath her boots:

If Whitlock is alive... who else is still playing dead?

And what did Silvio truly want?

Because now it wasn't just about truth.

It was about control.

And Rose was walking straight into the fire with her eyes wide open.