I open it. Grab the stupid glass milk bottle they always buy, because Mark read somewhere that plastic lowers testosterone, and pour a splash onto the counter. Just enough.
Then, with one finger, I drag through it, writing a single word in white across the black granite.
Wife.
That’ll rattle him. Because it could mean me. Or Jessica. Or both.
Doesn’t matter, it’ll start the spiral either way.
Maybe he’ll wonder if someone knows his ex-wife killed Duvall. Maybe he’ll think Jessica’s losing her mind.
That’s enough for now.
As the cherry on top, I head back to the entryway, grab a sticky note from the bowl beside the keys, and press it to the front of their gleaming stainless steel fridge.
Simple. Almost sweet.
Lovely is the song crows sing.
And beneath it, in smaller letters:
As if they’re trying to say something.
Chef’s kiss.
I lock the door on my way out. Return the key to the birdhouse.
Dust off my hands and slip back beneath the willow just as the floorboards creak faintly upstairs.
I don’t stay to see who comes downstairs.
I don’t need to.
I spent enough time watching.
Let the haunting happen in the background, for once.
Coming back to Laura Collins’ house feels like waking from a fever dream only to realize you’re still sick, just a little less sweaty about it.
I don’t remember the exact moment I shift again. Not really. One minute I’m wandering the edge of suburbia, picking dried leaves out of my hair like I didn’t just commit psychological warfare via dairy. The next, the world buzzes beneath my skin like it’s rebooting. That weird pressure builds again, like my atoms can’t decide which plane to land on, and just when I think I’m about to collapse into someone’s backyard birdbath, snap—
I’m standing.
Right next to Cassian’s creepy car.
Same soaked clothes. Same graveyard perfume. Same milky dirt caked under my nails. But this time, I’m upright and stable, which is a major upgrade.
You’d think a guy like Cassian could keep himself out of trouble in my absence, right?
Well… not exactly.
Last I saw him, right before I blinked out, not exactly by choice, he was mid-sneak into a crime scene to keep me from being spotted by a cop. Sweet of him. Never thought he’d do that for me.
But I’ve been gone at least thirty minutes. And things have… escalated.
Cassian in the car? Gone.
Cassian hiding in the bushes? Also gone.
