She turns away and starts back into her room, voice trailing behind her. “He’s not like the guy who sent those messages. He’s different.”
“You’ve never even seen the guy,” I call after her. “How do you know what type he is?”
She stops mid-step, back to me. Her hand stills where it’s reaching for something on her desk. Silence stretches between us. Then, quietly: “I just do.”
I push a hand down my face and move to lean in her doorway. “Look. I’m not here to control your life. I’m not even supposed to be here. But people like him, the ones who send texts like that or leave things on porches, they blend in. They know how topassfor normal.”
I should know. I’m an even worse kind of a monster.
She stands there for a moment, unmoving. Then she ties her hair back in one quick motion, grabs her bag, and slings it over her shoulder.
“Iamscared,” she says, still not facing me. “Of the real guy. Every day. That’s why I’m careful. That’s why I don’t want you scaring off the few people Icantrust.”
“I didn’t scare anyone,” I say.
Finally, she looks back at me over her shoulder. “Yeah. Sure you didn’t.”
Then she walks past me, brushing by without another word.
Grayson, Ava’s husband, opens the door wearing sweatpants and a faded department store T-shirt, clutching a chipped coffee mug like it’s the only thing holding him together. There’s a fresh orange stain on the front of his shirt, and a matching crust around the rim of the mug.
His eyebrows lift when he sees me on the porch, caught off guard mid-sip.
“Cassian,” he says.
I nod. “Sorry for showing up unannounced.”
“You here to see Ava?”
“Uh, no, actually.” I rub the back of my neck. “I came to see you. Thought you might be able to help me with something.”
He doesn’t move right away. Just stares at me for a few seconds longer than feels natural. Then he sighs and steps aside.
“Alright. Come in. I feel like shit most days lately, but I’m not exactly turning visitors away. Not that I get many. Everyone’s too busy fussing over the baby.”
The house smells like syrup and baby powder and something vaguely sour underneath. A kid is crying somewhere upstairs, high and shrill. Another one sits in the living room surrounded by stuffed animals, watching cartoons at full blast. The TV’s volume is turned up so loud it makes the floor vibrate.
I follow him into the kitchen. He sets his mug on the counter and leans against it, folding his arms across his chest like he needs the support just to stay upright.
There’s a toddler in a high chair, face, hands, and clothes covered in orange mush. The same paste clings to the tray in front of him, and there's a plastic spoon on the floor, already stepped on.
Which…explains all Grayson’s stains and then some.
“You almost look as bad as I do, Cassian,” Grayson says, glancing sideways at the baby. There’s love in that gaze, but also… a bone-deep exhaustion, like he hasn’t slept properly in three years and forgot what silence sounds like. “Not that I’m one to talk.”
I offer a tight smile, but I don’t bother pretending I came for a chat. I didn’t. There’s no point in softening the reason I’m here.
“I need to ask a favor.”
Grayson raises a brow, grabs a wet wipe from a pack on the table, and starts cleaning the baby’s cheeks with slow, practiced motions.
“Shoot.”
“It’s about Sabine.”
That gets him. His hand stills mid-air, the wipe bunched in his fingers. He stares at the baby for a moment longer, but I can tell he’s not really seeing him anymore.
I watch the shift roll through him. The fatigue in his posture doesn’t disappear. It just recedes. Folds itself behind something sharper. Older. Protectiveness, maybe. Or a sense of duty etched so deep into him it’s practically reflex.
