We couldn’t care less.
Pain is exactly what Mark deserves.
At the foyer, Talon is mid-velvet monologue. “—No one wants headlines, Ms. Dilano. Especially not the ‘money guy siphons neighbor fund’ kind. Folks get… testy.”
Paper sighs. Nathaniel, saintly: “We’re trying to keep this quiet for you.”
A brittle breath. “For… us? I’m sorry. I really don’t know what you’re talking about anymore.”
The window over the sink rattles. The crows shift, darkening the light inside the house to a bruise-color.
We pivot toward the garage door instead of the hall. Cassian shoulders it open just enough for us to slip through, easing Mark’s skull past the frame so he doesn’t leave a dent.
From the foyer: Nathaniel lowers the boom without raising his voice. “It’s not just the accounts, Ms. Dilano.”
A beat. Jessica’s heels stop their nervous tapping.
Talon takes over. “There was a woman living in this house before. She’s been missing for five years now. There were rumors she got buried under that willow tree. Imagine if someone hinted those two things might be related. Imagine a state archaeologist and a local reporter both showing up on that pretty lawn.”
I can feel Jessica go icy.
“W-what are you implying?” she manages. Her cadence splinters.
“We’re saying if there’s anything strange on your property, today is the perfect day to make sure it’s handled lawfully. Transparency protects you.”
Jessica whispers something like a prayer. Then: “Mark!”
The timing is clean. We needed her to break. She breaks.
Cassian’s mouth lifts a millimeter. “Move.”
We move. He drags Mark along the garage wall, props him on a shelf to regrip. I slip back into the house the way a spider slides into its web.
Talon spots me over Jessica’s shoulder and gives the smallest nod, then leans in.
“Whereisyour husband, anyway?”
“I—he’s working,” she says. “He—Mark?”
Talon tilts his head toward the staircase, his tone all sympathetic offense. “Wow. He hears burial and financial crimes and doesn’t even come say hello? If my wife were blindsided like this, I’d run.”
Jessica glances back up the hall, instincts tearing. Birds hit the front windows hard enough to make her flinch and yelp.
“Ms. Dilano,” Nathaniel says softly, “maybe call him.”
She fumbles her phone. Talon watches her face while Nathaniel’s gaze flicks to me for half a breath:go.
I go.
In Mark’s office, a ridgeline of perfect binders guards a desk that probably cost enough to buy a kidney. There it is. His phone. Face-down. Tethered to its charger like a dog. I don’t touch it. Not yet. Talon will want the joy.
Footsteps hit the stairs.
“Mark? Mark!”
Downstairs, Nathaniel’s voice follows her up, gentle and relentless. “Ms. Dilano, we do need someone to sign a consent form if the state calls back in the next five minutes. It would be better if your husband—”
“Mark!” She’s at the landing now. She hurries past the office doorway, hair undone, eyes wide to the whites. She barrels to the guest bath, stops dead, and hisses like she swallowed glass.
