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A faint glow leaks through the opening where the zipper hasn’t fully closed.

We continue.

The channel opens near the east cemetery boundary. Broken pilings rise from the bank. A collapsed stone step disappears beneath vines. The ground above it is flat enough for a small structure.

“The gazebo,” Pepper says.

“It matches the original location from the map,” Theo agrees.

He guides the canoe beside an iron ring set into a cypress trunk. I catch the post and hold us in place.

Pepper studies the bank. A narrow board sits beneath newer repair wood, nearly hidden by mud and fern roots. The carving is shallow but readable. J. Vines, East Route

Pepper stops breathing for a second. “That’s the same name again.” Her voice thins around the words. “My name.”

Theo ties off the canoe, then gets out first and checks the ground. Then he lifts Pepper from the canoe before she can argue. She allows it, arms around his neck, eyes fixed on the board. I step onto the bank and remain solid. More solid than I have felt away from our dock in months.

Pepper crouches beside the marker. She photographs the carving, the placement, and the old iron ring. Behind the board, brass catches the light.

Theo pulls on gloves and eases it free. It’s a narrow plant tag, tarnished almost black along the edges. Pepper wipes the face with a dry cloth. Stamped letters emerge.

Vines field notes: lilies, ash, chalk, ribbon

Pepper stares at it.

My body flickers at the shoulder.

She looks up at once. “Do you want to stop?”

I look at the marker, the water, the tag, and Pepper kneeling in the remains of a route someone with her last name recorded more than a century ago.

“No. I want to know what they were trying to do.”

She takes my hand, and her touch steadies the fading. Theo watches both of us, one palm resting at Pepper’s back.

Pepper turns over the brass tag. Three water marks and an open circle are scratched into the back. The same symbols from her notebook. The same shape carved into the stone.

The channel knocks once against the pilings.

I look at Pepper, then at the name carved into the board. J. Vines.

I’m no longer the only mystery in the cemetery.

Chapter 12

Pepper Vines

By the time we return from the canoe trip, the cool part of the morning has vanished. July presses against the house in wet layers. Cicadas scream from the live oaks. My shirt sticks between my shoulders, my curls have staged a full rebellion against my scarf, and my thighs are sending firm reminders that two days of heat recovery don’t qualify me for fieldwork heroics.

I regret nothing. Also, my legs regret several things. I’m open-minded enough to be emotionally committed to both positions.

Theo hands Ezra the evidence bag, then lifts me.

“I can walk.”

“You did, and now you’re hurting.”

“That is technically accurate and also rude to bring up.”