Her apartment is nothing more than old dust and cheap wiring. I could hear the heater trying to die when I pressed my hand to her window, glass cold under my palm. I could see her eyes jump from point to point—door, kitchen, safe, knives—mapping, calculating.
That part of her I respect.
She still has a blind spot, though. She thinks as long as she’s the one holding the information, she can stay behind it. That the story can’t touch her if she’s the narrator.
That’s what last night was for. Knocking on the glass. Reminding her she’s on the stage, too.
The sirens were an interruption, not a defeat.
Leaving when I did wasn’t fear. It was discipline. I’ve seen what happens when you let the thrill of improvisation run the show. Jason loved that—pushing one step farther, just to see if he’d fall. He liked the roar in his ears more than the plan.
I don’t.
I like the aftermath. The part where everyone realizes what they missed, goes back over their steps, finds all the ways they were careless.
Right now, half the town is doing that. Checking doors. Adding chains. Pretending those inch-thick pieces of hardware change anything.
Nightjar is doing it differently. She’s watching her feeds. Watching me. Her fingers are probably flying even now, trying to connect the shelf, the timing, the article’s careful wording.
She’ll come to the right conclusions.
That’s what she does.
The cursor on the private message box flickers to life.
She’s typing. Stops. Starts again.
who is this
I smile.
Oh, honey. You already know. Of course you know. That’s what makes it fun. We’re past masks. Past “maybe.” Past the strange relief of pretending this is anybody else’s game.
But she wants to hear me say it.
Not yet.
I flex my fingers once, knuckles popping, and type.
someone who appreciated your decorations last night
I can almost see her go still.
I was close enough to that window to memorize the way her shoulders tensed under that too-big shirt. Close enough to clock the exact moment my voice collided with recognition in her head.
Close enough to see that little bird swing.
There’s a hitch in the message flow. The system shows me her typing…then nothing… typing again.
You can tell a lot about a person from what they erase before they hit send.
how long have you been in town
she settles on.
You assume I ever left, little bird, I think.
I don’t answer the question. I scroll back through the earlier thread instead, the one from last night in the main room where she dropped my name like a match.
