A streetlight.
A man stepping into the glow.My pulse had miscounted then the way it is now, static skittering under my skin.I’d felt awake, lit from the inside, under that streetlight in a way I’d never felt before.
And I feel that way again now.
I try to breathe it quiet.Three in, five out, seven in.I line the pillow seam with the mattress edge.It doesn’t help.My head fills with what-ifs.What he’s doing.Where he is.Who’s with him.Sirens.Him getting caught.Him getting hurt.Detective Blake’s stupid card.The possible truths hidden in the ghosts pushing.I picture him bleeding in a room I can’t get to, or caged by a system that won’t care that he saved me.
The ache in my chest refuses to dissolve.So I get up.I wash my face, tie up my hair, put clothes on, and start digging.
I start on my phone.The screen brightens and changes on its own.I don’t touch it as Google pops up and the search bar readsSpiderweb crime ring.Spiderweb international.Spiderweb symbol organized crime.The ghosts want me to look, to name the thing Cassius is hunting or is hunting him, them, me.I go through article after article, and some have enough smoke to suggest a fire, others are straight-up conspiracy theories, I hope, that make my skin crawl.There are threads written in all caps, anonymous blogs that trail off mid-thought like the writer vanished.A handful of rumors about secret factions and criminal empires that no government can touch.
But nothing solid.Nothing real.Nothing I can use.I don’t have the slightest clue how to enter the dark web and I’m pretty positive that’s not a place I want to explore even if I could find it.
The dead crowd the edges of the screen.Bolo-Hat leans against the doorway in my peripheral vision, brim dipped low, murmuring,nothing in this house could get you in trouble.Others hiss in counterpoint:dig deeper.If you trust him you wouldn’t need proof.You’re already doubting his feelings.He’s using you to protect himself.You’re the perfect fall girl.Their whispers crawl through the glow of my phone until I’m not sure which thoughts are mine and which ones belong to them.
“So,” I whisper to them, “show me nothing.”And I start searching our house.
It’s not spying.Not really.It’s my place too.Because if I’m going to be a part of his life—trulyinit—I need to understand what I’m standing next to.Who I’m sleeping with.Who I’m letting fall in love with me, and who I’m falling in love with.
I move from room to room, careful not to leave anything out of place.
I start with his office.The drawers are locked, of course.All except one that’s filled with pens and a calculator that’s missing its batteries.I rifle through bookshelves, tapping along the backs of hardcovers to see if any of them ring hollow.I check the underside of his desk.The top of the door frame.The seams in the wall.
Bolo-Hat murmurs,second from the bottom, and the lights flicker.
I try it.Still locked.He tips his brim,try again.The key I don’t remember picking up is already in my fingers, cold.The drawer slides open on a hush of cedar and paper.
Not evidence.Memories.
A stack of photographs: a woman with Cassius’s eyes laughing into the sun; four boys on a curb with baseball gloves, skinned knees, and matching grins; the same boys a few years older, wearing suits and crooked ties, Caleb’s hand on Adrian’s shoulder, Atlas’s mouth stained blue from the popsicle he’s holding; a winter street in London, someone out of frame making them all smile; their mother at a kitchen table, flour on her knuckles; a rare formal shot of both of his parents in a doorway, his mother’s laugh mid-spill, his father’s palm heavy at her waist; a Polaroid of a birthday cake crowded with uneven candles.
My throat tightens.This is where he keeps the things that could hurt him without ever being illegal.Love is a weak point, Bolo-Hat says,to him it’s always paired with pain.
At the bottom, a small glossy print stops me.A little girl with a gap-toothed grin and a pink bow in her hair.On the back, in the same handwriting as the note Cassius left me:London, age 5.And beneath it, smaller, pressed hard enough to dent the photo:I’ll find you.
The room tilts.Missing girls.Ask about London.The ghosts weren’t lying.They were pointing.London is real.
My hands shake.I stack the photos exactly as I found them, slide them back into the cedar-scented drawer, close it until the latch clicks.The key is gone from my fingers like it was never there.I push the chair back under the desk, wipe my palms on my thighs, steady my breath.
Then I go to the bedroom.Pull the closet doors open and dig through drawers, past spare shirts and old watches.I check coat linings and jacket pockets.Nothing is hidden, but everything’sdeliberate—like Cassius already anticipated someone would look and made sure they wouldn’t find anything if they did.
I move into the hall.Knock on the walls like I’ve seen people do in movies.When nothing gives, I lie down flat on the hardwood, pressing my cheek to it, peering under the baseboards for cracks or latches or hidden panels.
I take a break to eat a single spoonful of peanut butter straight from the jar, then return to the guest room.Closet, mattress, behind the framed prints.I rip up a section of carpet in the corner when I think it looks slightly uneven.
It isn’t.
The bathroom’s empty too, save for the usual soaps and razors.I run my fingers over the tile like an insane person, tapping each one.
I even crawl under the kitchen sink.
At some point, I end up back in the bedroom, standing in front of the mirror, a little dusty, a lot sweaty, and looking completely unhinged.
And still no answers.
I sink to the floor, sitting cross-legged like a kid, and stare at nothing.
The worst part is… Idotrust him.On some primal level, I trust Cassius with my life.But I don’t trust the world he’s part of.I don’t trust the weight he carries.It isn’t his honesty I doubt; he’s already promised me that.It’s me.I don’t know if I can live with the whole of what the truth will look like laid bare.If I can love him with blood smearing everything.
