Talk To Me

Chapter One

May twenty-fourth

Present

Oliver sat on the cold ground, his legs crossed beneath him. The forest lay in near silence, except for the occasional birds chirping and the gentle rustling of fresh spring leaves above. His fingers traced the brittle remains of autumn, the dry, crumbling petals cracking beneath his grip. His gaze drifted toward the shallow pit that remained undisturbed.

"Talk to me," he murmured, his voice strained with desperation, a deep frown creasing his forehead.

He waited, listening intently, but only silence answered. The fading sunlight cast elongated shadows through the trees, making the evening feel darker than it was. He lifted his eyes, scanning the quiet forest, hoping, praying.

But the only thing he felt was the weight of solitude. For three agonizing months, he had returned to this exact spot, searching for a sign, a whisper, a flicker of her presence. But Leah remained elusive.

With a slow breath, Oliver reached into the pocket of his black coat and pulled out a golden necklace with a delicate chain. His thumb brushed against the engraved back of the locket, the rough etching pressing into his skin. The sensation was oddly sharp, grounding him.

"Come on, Leah. You promised you'd never leave me," he whispered, his gray eyes watering. "Talk to me."

He tilted his head back, staring at the sky, before lowering his gaze once more to the pit. But still—nothing. Not even the smallest shift in the air. He had hoped the pendant would help.

He had even lied to the police, just once, claiming it was a family heirloom. They had found it on Leah's body, and taken it in as evidence, but when it gave nothing useful, they returned it to him. Oliver had never seen the necklace before, but he convinced himself that his sister's spirit had latched onto it.

Once again, disappointment settled in his chest like a heavy stone. Clenching his jaw, he stood and turned toward the clearing, slipping the locket into the back pocket of his black jeans. The metal was ice-cold against his fingertips. By the time he reached his car, the unease that had been chewing at him refused to let go.

The drive back felt longer than usual, the weight in his chest growing with every mile. As he turned onto Garrison Road, his grip tightened around the steering wheel. When he pulled into the driveway, his father was already there, pacing near the house, his movements restless and erratic.

James Brown had aged a decade in just a few months. His once dark chestnut hair had dulled to a muddy shade, streaked with strands of white. The stubble on his chin was peppered with gray, and deep lines carved into the corners of his tired azure eyes. The heavy bags beneath them hinted at too many sleepless nights.

The moment Oliver stepped out of the car, James was there. "Well?" His voice was sharp, and demanding, his impatience barely contained.

Oliver shook his head, his shoulders slumping. "Nothing, Dad. I'm sorry. I really tried."

James exhaled sharply, throwing his hands up in frustration. "You're doing this on purpose!" His finger jabbed in Oliver's direction. "Try harder. You didn't even have to try before. But when I need this from you, suddenly you can't do it?" His voice rose, raw with anger. "You've helped strangers, but not your own father?"

Oliver clenched his jaw, looking away. "I want to find her too," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "You know that. Without Nana, I lost it. I didn't do my part, and now—this is the consequence."

James' face twisted with something unreadable. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. "Do you really think that? That you lost it?"

Oliver hesitated before muttering, "I hope not." He met his father's eyes for just a moment.