Chapter 25 begins with Saint and her grandmother driving to the riverside town of Darby Falls, a small place nearly sixty miles from Monta Clare, known more for its sleepy pace than solemn gatherings. On this particular afternoon, however, grief pulled strangers and neighbors together. Along the calm edges of the Hunter Bayou, a vigil was being held in honor of Callie Montrose, the teenage daughter of a police officer who had gone missing. A hush fell over the crowd as candles and lanterns were lit, their glow reflected on the water like gentle spirits. Norma, dressed in her late husband’s hunting coat, clutched a pair of worn mittens and quietly observed the crowd. A high school choir sang in the background, their voices soft but clear, resonating with sorrow. The event offered comfort, but also questions—about safety, about innocence, and about the hidden dangers that often go unnoticed in small towns.

As the ceremony unfolded, Saint sought out Callie’s father. He stood quietly at the edge of the crowd, apart from the others, his posture stoic but distant. She introduced herself carefully, mentioning she was from Monta Clare. His recognition of her was instant, though his smile was faint and short-lived. Rather than speak in the soft platitudes people offer at moments like this, he surprised her by painting a real, more nuanced picture of his daughter. He admitted that Callie wasn’t perfect, that she had stolen from his truck once and occasionally sipped wine from the Thanksgiving table before she was old enough. Yet he said those rough edges were part of what made her human, and that, given time, life would have shaped her into someone strong. Saint listened, appreciating his honesty, realizing how often lost loved ones are polished into saints, their imperfections forgotten.

Their conversation took a heavier turn when Saint asked the question that had haunted her for days: could those who vanished ever truly return? The air seemed to freeze, and though Callie’s father didn’t answer, his silence felt louder than words. Saint turned away, eyes drifting to the floating lanterns that dotted the bayou like tiny souls drifting further into the dark. Among the crowd, she noticed someone else—Dr. Tooms, a familiar but distant figure. He stood off to the side, separate from mourners, lighting a single candle. With careful hands, he released it into the water, watching it float away without expression. The moment carried weight. Saint sensed a heaviness in him, though she couldn’t say why.

Just as she began to make sense of the moment, someone whispered behind her. A teenage girl mentioned seeing Dr. Tooms lingering near their high school weeks ago, allegedly watching students from his parked car. The girl called him a “creep” under her breath, a word that cut through Saint like glass. The revelation didn’t seem to fit the somber scene, but it lingered in her mind. Could someone so calm, so solemn, hide something sinister beneath the surface? Her instincts told her not to dismiss it. In small towns, secrets often nest quietly behind familiar faces. That thought unsettled her more than anything the vigil had brought to light.

This chapter doesn’t just dwell in sadness—it highlights how collective memory can both heal and obscure. Callie’s father challenged the easy narrative, reminding everyone that grief must allow space for honesty. Saint’s moment with him shifted her understanding of what it means to mourn someone—how remembrance needs to hold both beauty and truth. At the same time, the presence of Dr. Tooms injected unease, a subtle reminder that not every sorrow is innocent. The floating lanterns may have symbolized hope, but the whisper of danger echoed louder. The community’s sorrow, so visible and sincere, masked an undercurrent of fear—a fear that more truths were yet to surface. This realization planted a seed of resolve in Saint, one that would shape the decisions to come.