In retrospect, it’s a boring story full of legal jargon Antaris won’t understand. Still, having his attention feels incredible until the story concludes. That’s when the lights go out in Antaris’s eyes. He retreats, staring blankly at the pages, while Hiram crashes from the high of a rare normal moment between them. He waits in the never-ending silence, but nothing changes. This is the end of the road for today.
Hiram showers, trying to ignore his mounting frustration. Itisprogress, he tells himself, but the chasm between them feels deeper than ever. He’s hyperaware of how badly he wants to close the distance before it’s too late. When he returns, changed and dried, Antaris still sits on the deck. Ready for their nightly ritual.
Antaris wanders every night. When anxious, they’re out here for hours. When upset, he sobs while Hiram looks on, helpless, unable to soothe the root of his sadness. When withdrawn, he wraps himself in a blanket that covers everything except his eyes. Hiram has several theories about the source of his son’s nocturnal wanderings, but none of them are comforting. The worst scream at him when Antaris starts looking. Under the deck. Around the bushes and trees. Behind the trash bins. Out over the water.Searching.It’s as if he’s trying to find what’s missing. His mother.
Hiram knows the wandering is ending when Antaris slows enough for him to catch up. Each night, Hiram offers his hand. Each time, it’s met with hesitation, never acceptance.
Back inside, Hiram checks his trip itinerary, folding it neatly. The earlier conversation with his dad lingers as he knocks on Antaris’s bedroom door. Antaris is already in bed, squeezing a battered stuffedrabbit, cotton spilling out, one ear gone, a button eye barely holding on. He won’t let anyone fix the unfortunate thing. Hiram stopped trying two weeks ago.
Tonight, he offers the folded piece of paper. Antaris looks confused, but Hiram nudges him to take it. “It’s for you.”
Antaris unfolds the note, blinking at the paper.
“While you’re at school, I’ll be away. I’m flying to Los Angeles to finish a few things. This is when I leave, and when I will return. You can keep track of me with this, and I’ll know where you are because of a spell I cast on it.”
To Hiram’s shock, Antaris reacts. Face flushed, breathing ragged, he hyperventilates as the hands of the clock on his nightstand spin wildly—a warning of an imminent magical accident. Hiram hesitates twice, then rests his hand on the bed.
“I’m coming back.”
He has to say it three times before Antaris lifts his head, still on the verge of tears.
“I promise.”
Still, it’s not enough. Antaris looks away, rocking and hugging his rabbit tighter, his eyes distant. The clock spins out of control, and Hiram finds himself just as lost. How does he even begin to approach the topic of his mother, who left and never returned?
“I know it’s not much, but ...”
Fumbling for a pen, Hiram scribbles a note. A written oath he vows to never break.
I’ll always come back.
Hiram keeps his promise by making it home with hours to spare, but his head is spinning from the chaos of the day.
Finalizing the shipping of his belongings was far easier than handling the last signatures to officially begin his hiatus. He reached the airport with plenty of time, only to be bombarded with calls from his uncle Robert. Apparently, Simran told him Hiram was in town, and he wanted to discuss an opportunity at the family’s firm. When Robert brought Antaris into it, advising that moving firms would benefit his kid the most, Hiram told his uncle he’d rather be disbarred. Now, back home, Hiram deletes his mother’s voicemails on the way to the mailbox.
The only thing inside is a card.Gabriel Sallant. Investigator.
Hiram almost tears the card in half before the address catches his eye. Moments later, he’s en route to the investigator’s downtown office. He flashes his identification at security and shows the card to the building receptionist, who mumbles, “Fourth floor,” and points to the elevator.
Avoiding eye contact in the elevator is easy. He steps out to find himself face-to-face with a door markedFederal Crime Division. He lets himself in.
Before he can ring the bell at the secretary’s desk, a woman—presumably Seren Landry, according to the precariously placed golden nameplate on the desk—pops up from behind a mountain of folders. She looks no older than thirty-five, with fair skin, a sleek blond bob, and piercing green eyes. She’s dressed in black tailored pants and a white shirt, a bird amulet brooch pinned to her jacket. Folders seem more capable of withstanding a breeze than she does.
“Hey there, how can I help ya?” Her Southern accent is unexpected this far northwest.
“I’m looking for Investigator Sallant. He left this in my mailbox.” Hiram holds up the card.
“That sounds like Gabriel. He’s awfully dedicated to his cases.”
“Dedicated?” Hiram scoffs. “More like relentless.”
“I doubt the victims or their families think that’s a bad thing.” Seren touches a lone lavender bloom rising from the serrated leaves beside her. “The dead can’t seek justice, but the living can.”
She has a point.
“Who are you and what case are you here about?”
“Hiram Ellis and the Botanist.”
