Inside, the house has that after-storm quiet that makes you speak softer without knowing why. A box sits on the counter, the snow globe from last night with a tech dusting it for prints. My stomach rolls. I find my Katibug in the living room, perched on the edge of the couch like she hasn’t decided whether sitting or pacing helps more. She looks up, and the relief that breaks across her face nearly puts me on the floor.
“Hi,” she says. It’s a whisper and a laugh and a sob all in one word.
I cross the room in three strides and stop in front of her, because if I pull her in too fast, we’ll both shatter. “You okay?” I ask, because questions are easier than the torrent behind them. “Did he—”
“No.” She’s quick to cut me off, like she knows how the worst pictures paint themselves in my head. “He never got inside.”
I breathe out hard enough I have to put a hand on the back of the couch to steady myself. Then I do what I should’ve done first: I touch her. Just her cheek, the swipe of my thumb along her skin to prove she’s here.
“Lightning,” I say.
Her mouth wobbles. “She waited just like you taught her.”
I nod, because the words won’t go where I need them. I swallow, finally finding the ones I can manage. “Good job, Katibug.”
She huffs an almost-laugh. “I didn’t feel like it.”
“You don’t have to feel like it to be it.” My hand slides down, finds hers, and I notice for the first time the faint tremor still running through her fingers. I curl my own around it until the shake has somewhere else to go.
Behind us, a floorboard whispers. Reid Cason is in the doorway, giving me a look similar to the one his cousin gives a player he wants an answer from but doesn’t want to pry. “Statement tonight or in the morning?”
“Morning.” My eyes don’t leave Oakley. “I need to make sure we’re all okay.”
“Figured as much.” He tips his chin. “Patrol will loop till sunup. I left my number on the counter if you need anything.”
“Thanks,” I say, and mean more than the word holds.
Reid nods once and sees everyone else out of the house.
I drop to a knee so we’re eye-level. “Tell me.”
Oakley does. Not the sensational version. The exact one. The knock. The eyes. The way his voice was so calm it made her think she was the crazy one for a second. The way she didn’t look toward the hall when Aubrey moved. How she closed the door. How she locked it. How she called. How she kept breathing.
By the time she gets to the end, my hands are fisted so tight it’s a miracle I’m not bleeding. “I’m sorry,” I say, and it comes out like a cut. “I shouldn’t have gone to Charleston. I should’ve made y’all come with me. Maybe—”
“No.” Her voice is sharp enough to slice the apology free of my mouth. “Don’t start that.”
“He came to my house.”
“Our house.” She sets my own words back in my hands like a weight I can carry. “He came toour housebecause you won’t let him have what he wants. He came because he’s losing.”
I know what she’s doing. I let her do it anyway, because she’s right. Guilt is a liar.
“Did he touch the handle?” I ask, because logistics are easier to fight than ghosts.
“Yes.” She gestures to the door. “They dusted it, but he had gloves on.”
I stand, needing a moment to release some of the tension that’s been compounding over the last few hours. I check the lock a useless second time, check the window latches. I know all the sensors are active. I’ve checked twice since I walked in the door. It doesn’t matter. I still do a sweep of the perimeter with my eyes, then I come back to her.
“You sleep any?” I ask.
She lets out a breath that isn’t a laugh. “I sat on the kitchen floor until the lights hit the window. Does that count?”
“It’s rest.” I don’t say that counts for tonight, but I think it hard enough I hope she hears it anyway.
A tiny shape appears on the stairs, quiet as a mouse. “Bubba?”
Aubrey’s hair is a nest, her unicorn shirt rumpled, eyes huge in the low light. I’m at the stairs before the second syllable hits the air.
