He sat beside me during the interview, his fingers tightening on my shoulder each time I spoke, like reins jerking a horse’s head. When the detective’s gaze landed on him, his voice softened, his head turned reverent—holier than the collar he wore. The second she stepped out, his eyes found mine and held them hostage.

I didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. Just counted the seconds until I could breathe again.

Now, only a handful of mourners lingered near the grave. Damp earth clung to the edge of the open hole like even the ground couldn’t let her go. The sky sagged low, clouds bruised and trembling.

One of them—the detective— watched from the fringe. Her gaze skimmed the mourners, eyes sharp, searching for a ripple in the stillness. She missed the storm standing in plain sight: the man in the collar. My father. My sister’s killer.

I stepped away from my grandfather’s side, every nerve screaming. “Would it be alright if I read a poem? One my sister sang to me at night?”

The preacher’s jaw tightened. He glanced at my grandfather—still as a headstone, hand firm on his Bible. The nod came. My father couldn’t refuse. Not here. Not now.

My palms sweated against the notebook. Not hers—the real one burned to ash in our woodstove—but the one I rebuilt, note by note, from memory.

“Elisa used to sing this when the wind curled through the birch trees. Right before a storm.”

A killdeer cried out, its thin wail slicing through the quiet.

“Silence swallowed Elisa. But I still hear her.”

In the hush before a storm, when the trees turn blue. 

Do they know something secret? Something true?”

The detective’s chin tilted. Her gaze snapped toward me.

I met it.

Do we chase shadows for the truth,

When sunlight hides the clue?

Wind lifted the hem of my ankle-length skirt. My voice held steady.

“My sister sang the blues, even when forbidden.”

The air snapped. A vein ticked in his temple. Just once

His eyes nailed me. Jaw clenched. The look he used to shut us up without a word.

I read it loud and clear.

Stop.

The detective’s gaze flicked between us. I saw it click.

I didn’t back down.

“She sang this line.” My voice cut through the stillness.

Truth burns bold beneath the mask. 

Truth lies buried by a blue-eyed reaper.

His eyes—glacial blue—burned holes through me.

I closed the notebook. My hand shook.

The detective didn’t look away.

Later, at home, I dropped the needle on Elisa’s old John Lee Hooker vinyl. The guitar moaned, slow and low. Hooker’s voice crawled out like smoke, thick with secrets. The kind you don’t say. The kind you play.

Last night, I let the guitar speak while I wrote the lyrics that told Elisa’s story. Hooker’s riffs worked under my skin, scratching out the silence until it bled the truth. Until I knew what to do.

Silence swallowed my sister. It tried to swallow me.

I found my voice. And used it.

Author’s note: This was difficult to write. I’m a born-again Christian, but not everyone who claims faith lives it—some wolves wear collars.