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.