“Jess,” he calls, voice strangled, “tell them to wait.”
“No,” I say, gentle as a razor. “Invite them in. Tell them how the ground feels soft under the willow after rain.”
He flinches.
Cassian coughs in the alcove and knocks on the laundry door again, harder. Water hammers through the pipes. Mark’s gaze skates over my shoulder in the mirror.
“You’re a trick,” he says finally, hoarse. “You’re… someone in a mask.”
“Mm.” I tip my head. “If it helps, pretend I am. But didn’t you get my message earlier? The mud must’ve left a lot of mess.”
His mouth opens. Closes. The second beat of panic comes uglier. The past reaches up and wraps both hands around his ankles.
Behind us, the crows surge, and the living room windows go dark beneath their bodies.
A neighbor squeals. Someone saysholy God.
Jessica gasps like she’s seen the ocean climb the curb.
I lower my voice and let it slip under his skin the way he used to slip under mine when he needed me to be smaller.
“You’re done for, Mark Dilano,” I tell him. “You’re a dead man walking. You just don’t know it yet.”
He doesn’t move. Cassian peels away and walks over. He’s slow and silent, until he isn’t. One second Mark is trembling in front of the mirror, paralyzed by the weight of his sin; the next, he’s knocked out cold. His head snaps sideways against the doorframe with a dull, satisfying thud.
I breathe.
It tastes like penny metal and wet soil.
Cassian catches him by the collar before he fully slumps and lowers him, neat as placing a bag of lawn clippings. He tilts Mark’s chin, checks pupils with a soldier’s indifference, then glances up.
“You good?”
I’m smiling. It feels carved on. “Euphoric.”
“Stay that way.”
He peels a roll of matte tape from his back pocket and binds Mark’s wrists fast, thumb to pinky, the kind that bites if you fight. Another loop for his ankles. Efficient. Ugly. Perfect.
Cassian hauls the deadweight upright. The tape squeaks once. I unlatch the bathroom window, and the crows press close enough to blot the light.
“Let’s go,” Cassian murmurs.
Down the hall, the foyer scene swells. Jessica’s shoes scrape the hardwood; she’s trying to sound gracious and flustered at once, her voice pitching glossy and high.
Nathaniel: “—so the state historic preservation office asked us to do a courtesy sweep before they send a team. Totally routine.”
Talon: “Routine, yeah. Like mandatory reporting when a financial advisor double-books client funds. Happens more often than you’d think around here.”
Silence. Jessica’s breath hooks. “I’m… sorry?”
Nathaniel’s papers whisper. “Ms. Dilano, I’m sure this is nothing. We just want to avoid the… headlines. You know how it goes when someone mentions burial. Or worse, misappropriation. People invent stories.”
Talon chuckles. “Especially when there’s already a whistleblower letter floating around about one Mr. Mark Dilano’s shell entities. Total coincidence, I’m sure.”
Cassian ghosts us through the kitchen. I slide the door open an inch. The crow-wall breathes and lets us out, like we’re passing through a lung.
We slip behind the hedges. Cassian carries him bridal-style for balance; Mark’s head lolls to the side like it will hurt later.
