Chapter 22: The Dead Don't Stay Buried

The cemetery sat on a hill overlooking the Vance estate, a sprawling field of headstones and wilting flowers that marked generations of wolves who had served the family. Elena's boots sank into the damp earth as Marcus led her past the older graves, his hand clamped around her arm with a grip that promised pain if she tried to run. She didn't. She walked with her head bowed, her shoulders hunched, playing the grieving daughter who had no fight left. Rain had fallen the night before, and the ground was soft, sucking at her heels. The air smelled of wet stone and decay. She counted her steps—forty-seven from the iron gate to a bare patch of earth where no grass had grown. A headstone stood there, simple and gray, with her mother's name carved into the granite. ANNA VANCE. No dates. No epitaph. "Say goodbye," Marcus said, his voice flat. Elena dropped to her knees. The wet seeped through her jeans, cold and gritty. She pressed her palms to the dirt, fingers curling as if she could dig through the earth and find her mother's hand. Her breath came in shallow gasps. The grief was real—it clawed at her chest, a raw ache that had never healed. But she forced herself to look past the pain, to study the ground. The soil was disturbed, but not evenly. Near the headstone, a rectangular depression suggested a coffin had been lowered. But around the edges, the earth was mounded higher, as if someone had dug and refilled recently. The grass was sparse, but what remained was yellowed, not fresh green. She pressed her thumb into the mud and felt something hard—a root, or maybe a stone. She pushed deeper. Her nail scraped against plastic. "Enough," Marcus said. She didn't move. "I want a moment." "You've had it." He grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet. She stumbled, twisting to look back at the grave. That's when she saw it—a faint glint near the base of a nearby oak tree, half-hidden by moss. A lens. Small, no bigger than her thumbnail. A camera. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She kept her face slack, her eyes wet, as Marcus dragged her back toward the estate. But her mind was racing. Someone had been watching. And if the grave was empty, as her father had claimed, that camera might have captured everything. Back in the house, Marcus led her to his study. He closed the door and stood behind his desk, his hands resting on the polished wood. "What remains of your mother is safe," he said. "Or what you are willing to believe remains of her. I moved it to a location only I know. As long as you cooperate, the truth remains undisturbed." Her hands trembled at her sides. She wanted to lunge across the desk, to wrap her fingers around his throat and squeeze until he told her where. But she held still. "Cooperate with what?" "Kill Damon Blackwood. Or I'll have every scrap of evidence ground to dust and scattered where no wolf will ever learn what really happened to Anna Vance." The words hit her like a physical blow. She staggered back a step, her vision blurring. "You're insane." "I'm practical. You have access to him. You're in his bed, in his head. Use it." She shook her head, but the denial felt hollow. She thought of Damon's eyes, the way they softened when he looked at her, the vulnerability he'd shown her. Could she kill him? Could she trade his life for her mother's peace? "I'll give you a week," Marcus said. "Then I'll send you a reminder." He pulled out his phone and showed her a photo. Her mother's face, pale and still, lay on a cold metal slab. A morgue. Elena's stomach turned, but then her gaze caught on the wrist. Smooth skin. No old crescent scar from the kitchen knife Anna had dropped when Elena was nine. "Get out," she whispered. Marcus smiled. "That's my girl." She fled the study, her footsteps echoing down the hallway. She didn't stop until she reached her old bedroom—the one she'd grown up in, now stripped of all her belongings. She leaned against the door, her breath ragged. She had to get that camera footage. It was the only way to prove her father had moved the staged remains, the only leverage she might have. But she'd have to sneak out of the estate, past the guards, past the cameras. At night. The plan formed quickly, fueled by desperation. She waited until the house fell silent, until the last guard made his rounds and the lights in the main wing went dark. Then she slipped out of her window, dropping onto the soft grass below. The cemetery was darker now, the moon hidden behind clouds. She used her phone as a flashlight, keeping the beam low. The camera was still there, tucked into the crook of the oak tree. She reached up, her fingers brushing the plastic casing. Footsteps crunched behind her. She spun. A guard stood ten feet away, his hand on his holster. "Miss Vance. You're not supposed to be here." Her heart slammed once. She had seconds. She lunged forward, swinging her elbow into his throat. He choked, doubling over. She grabbed his head and slammed it against the tree trunk. He went limp. She stood there, breathing hard, the camera clutched in her hand. The guard groaned. She'd knocked him out, but he'd wake up. And when he did, he'd report her. She was out of time. She ran. The woods swallowed her, branches whipping at her face. Behind her, alarms began to blare.