Page 5 of Knot the Last Chapter

Tonight, it all feels manageable. Familiar.

Like home.

Chapter three

Lila

There are exactly six and a half flower shops in Starling Grove.

The half counts because it’s technically a hardware store that sells seasonal mums in old paint buckets and calls it “garden flair.” We skip that one and end up at Blossom & Vine, where the air smells like eucalyptus, and the bottle blond petite woman behind the counter already knows why we’re here.

“Hey, Jules,” she says to my mom, pulling out a sympathy bouquet before we even ask. “You want to swap out the daisies for tulips again this year?”

Mom gives her a thin smile. “He always did say daisies looked like weeds trying too hard.”

My brother snorts and pretends to examine a nearby orchid. I lean against a display of ceramic gnomes and let the air conditioning settle over my shoulders like a silk shawl.

It’s our third year doing this. Tulips, dad jokes, cemetery drive. A weird little ritual I never imagined being part of my annual calendar, and yet here we are.

Jake pays for the flowers, even though Mom protests. He brushes her off with a casual, “You raised me. Least I can do is buy flowers for a grave.”

“Charming,” I say, nudging him with my elbow.

He shoots a quick grin my way. “That’s what Dad always called me.”

“He called you a menace.”

“Semantics.”

Mom sighs and shakes her head, but there’s a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. For all our broken pieces, we still fit together—awkwardly, unevenly, but tightly.

We pile into Jake’s SUV, which smells faintly like gym socks and leather. The air conditioner is too cold, the radio’s playing soft country, and the backseat squeaks when I shift. Everything is familiar and just a little annoying. Like family should be.

“Did you ever fix that rattle in the back?” Mom asks, frowning at the dashboard like it personally offends her.

“I did,” Jake says, then after a beat: “With duct tape and righteous indignation.”

“Your father would’ve used bungee cords and a prayer.”

“He also once fixed a lawn mower with a toothbrush and half a soda can. He wasn’t exactly OSHA compliant.”

“True,” Mom murmurs, looking out the window. “But he got things done.”

The drive to the cemetery doesn’t take long. Starling Grove isn’t the kind of town where anything takes long. We pass the old high school, the bakery that’s been “under new management” for five months, and the stretch of woods where Jake once claimed he saw a ghost. (It was just fog and his overactive imagination, but the story stuck and inspired me to write mysteries.)

The cemetery is small, tucked behind a wrought-iron gate and shaded by tall oak trees. It’s quiet here in that peaceful,untouched way—like the wind tiptoes and the birds chirp a little softer out of respect.

We walk to Dad’s grave in a loose line, like we’re each carrying something invisible and heavy.

The headstone is simple. Elegant.Michael Quinn.Beloved husband, father, expert griller, professional punster.

Jake crouches to clear away a few stray weeds. Mom smooths the grass. I set the tulips down with more reverence than I thought I had left in me.

“I still expect him to pop up and say we’re all doing this wrong,” Jake murmurs.

“Only because we are,” I say softly. “We didn’t bring lemon bars.”

“That was his rule for everything,” Mom says with a little laugh. “Weddings, funerals, job interviews—lemon bars fix all.”

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