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He kisses me once, hard and brief, then crosses the house and opens the door.

Wes enters with his weapon drawn and closes the door behind him. “Bike is registered to a shell company connected to the Saints. No rider. I saw movement beyond the east wall. At least three.”

“Probably more,” Theo says.

Wes looks from the shotgun to the route map. “What’s the move?”

I point to each part of the map as I explain. “Two jobs. You and Theo take a decoy evidence case toward the charity ground and make it look like that’s what we’re protecting. Ezra and I leave behind the house and follow the real release route. Once you’ve pulled their attention east, you take the service path toward the open circle.”

Wes studies the map.

“If the plan works, we meet here.” I touch the circle. “If it doesn’t, nobody comes back to the house.”

“You sure this will work?” Wes asks.

“No.”

He gives one sharp nod. “Good. Means you’re not lying to yourself.”

Theo takes a waterproof evidence case from the cabinet. Ezra begins loading it with printed copies, one incomplete map, and photographs of the false grave.

“Should we include something shiny?” he asks. “Villains seem to enjoy shiny things.”

“Put the old brass marker inside.”

Theo looks at me. “The fake one?”

“The one from the maintenance shed. It resembles a route marker if you don’t know what you’re looking at.”

Ezra adds it.

I gather three lengths of white survey ribbon and tie them around a bundle of dried swamp lilies. The same materials have appeared along the old route often enough that anyone watching for historical clues should recognize them.

The house knocks behind me.

“I’m hurrying,” I tell it.

A cabinet door swings open on its own. Inside sit two chalk markers, a coil of white thread, the old cemetery key, and a small emergency whistle.

Ezra glances over. “It has notes to add to your plan.”

“It can submit feedback after we survive.”

I take what the house offers anyway.

Theo checks the windows again while Wes watches the road through the narrow gap beside the curtain.

“Fog is rolling in,” Wes says.

I move to the window.

White curls between the graves. It’s wrong. Instead of drifting in from the swamp, it rises straight out of the lowest ground, gathering around markers and tree roots before climbing over the headstones in thick, silent sheets. There is no wind. The sun remains above the trees, but the fog turns daylight flat and silver.

Ezra joins me. “That was fast.”

The first row of graves disappears. Then the brick wall. The motorcycle vanishes last.

Theo looks toward the bell tower. “The curse is reacting.”