The front-door chatter drifts. Jessica’s polite cadence curves upward like a question, Talon’s laughter syrupy and slick. Nathaniel steadies the conversation. I can’t tell if they’ve already brought the files out or if the scaring hasn’t started yet.
Either way, we should move.
But Cassian leans closer, close enough that I feel the heat off his skin. His mouth hovers by my ear when he says, “I’ll prime the motherfucker right. Put your big-girl panties on, Skye. Then we can take them off later and fuck, knowing we’ve cut your monster’s fingers off.”
Something in me jolts, like lightning running down the length of my spine.
I can’t help the grin that stretches across my face.
“You’re psychotic, you know that?”
His jaw flexes. A tiny smirk.
“I’ve been told that before.”
Yeah, right. By me.
We move.
Cassian moves first, a shadow flattening beneath the kitchen window before gliding along the siding toward the side entrance. The crows redistribute with a rustle, like silk being ripped. I can feel their attention pivot with me, but they don’t croak. Not yet, anyway.
Talon’s voice carries from the front, buttered up with that fake-credential confidence.
“—Ground-penetrating radar anomalies along the property line, ma’am. We’re with the university’s salvage unit. It’s pretty time sensitive.”
Jessica’s laugh tinkles, brittle and bright. “I’m sorry, is this about… a pipe?”
“Possibly a mound,” Nathaniel says, mild as milk. “If it’s nothing, you’ll have a charming story for brunch.”
Cassian’s hand brushes the back door. He hunkers, slips a thin wedge of metal from his pocket, and the bolt yields. The door opens an inch, then two. Air moves over us: floor cleaner, printer ink, male cologne, and I hate that I know the last one down to the brand.
We slide in.
The kitchen is back to its perfect state. There’s no mud on the floor, milk or the note I left for Mark the last time. I press my palm flat on the counter, and beneath it, memory hums.
I know I scared him back then. I just know it.
But there’s no sign now.
Instead, there are footsteps upstairs. They are slow and even, and I recognize them instantly. Mark’s work tread. The familiarity curdles my stomach.
Cassian turns, his mouth close to my ear. “Bathroom?”
“Upstairs. End of the hall, left. He uses the guest one when he’s on a call,” I whisper. “Mirror faces the door.”
He nods once, takes three silent steps into the hall, and melts into the corridor like a shadow. I angle the other way, skimming baseboards, and counting breaths.
One, two, three…
Don’t you dare tremble.
From the front door comes the rustle of paper, the soft click of plastic as Nathaniel unveils the props. Talon, velvet menace: “Of course, if there’s nothing to worry about, we’ll be gone in fifteen minutes.”
“Can I—should I call my husband?” Jessica asks.
“Please do,” Nathaniel says smoothly. “He’ll want to hear this.”
Here we go…
