The crows answer my pulse with a high shriek. Branches scrape the glass. Somewhere, a neighbor whispers, “holy crap, look at that—” and a phone camera clicks.
Stairs creak. One, two. He’s coming down. Cassian slips into the utility alcove opposite the guest bath and bumps the laundry door with his hip. There’s a soft bang. He mutters something low, profane, something akin to the noise a man would make if Jessica invited one into the house.
Mark’s steps pause. Resume. He turns the corner.
I know he’s paranoid.
I flatten into the sliver of wall beside the bathroom doorway, heartbeat in my throat, mouth gone dry as chalk. The mirror is a rectangle of brightness facing me across the small tiled space, catching only the pale blur of the opposite wall. When he crosses the threshold, he’ll be in my view.
“Jess?” His voice floats down the hall. “What’s going on with—”
Cassian makes the laundry door bang again. The water lines knock.
Mark exhales once, and walks into the bathroom.
He reaches for the light.
I beat him to it.
The bulb pops alive and flickers, Pain’s hum kissing the filament so it stutters to my liking. Blink. Blink. Buzz. Mark blinks into the light, turns toward the mirror—
And sees me.
I watch it hit him like a silent car crash. His eyes widen. Calculation skipping a gear. His jaw twitches.
“Hi, Mark.” My voice is soft.
He doesn’t turn. Can’t. His gaze is pinned like a moth.
“No.”
From the foyer, Jessica calls, voice bright with brittle cheer:
“Mark? There are men here from the university. Something about a… burial?”
Burialricochets down the hall and hits him dead center.
He swallows. His Adam’s apple bobs once, twice. A vein beats in his temple.
“This is not real,” he says to the mirror, to himself, to God. “You’re—”
“Dead?” My smile shows a neat, small bite of teeth. “Yes, I am.”
He finally moves. Not to face me, but to touch the mirror frame, checking for projector glass. The light flickers again, and the crows on the gutters chorus a shuffle that sounds too much like laughter.
Down the hall, Talon’s voice carries, calm and coaxing:
“—and if it’s nothing, fantastic. If it’s something, you’ll be heroes for reporting it.”
“Mark?” Jessica again, edges fraying now. “Should I…? Gods, what’s with these goddamn birds? Mark!”
“In a minute,” he snaps automatically, then winces like he didn’t mean to scream at her. Oh, right. The asshole in him was only ever reserved to me.
I lean my shoulder to the doorjamb and let the silence ripen.
“Trouble in paradise?” I murmur. “Heard there’s a corpse in the garden somewhere.”
His eyes flicker, the first crack of panic spider-webbing the ice. His refusal to look away from the mirror starts to look less like control and more like superstition: if he faces the door, I’ll be behind him; if he blinks, I’ll vanish; if he breathes wrong, I’ll pour out of the glass and touch his throat the way he deserves.
