I have something. I have a loose description of the man, his name, and his handwriting. Staring back into my apartment, the rug and carpet are dirty and scuffed up, but there’s no evidence of a crime. Even the notes I got when I was in Kaler City were marked with an M, not a G. This could be something completely separate from Milo. What has Layla got herself into?
I think I should’ve told Luxe and Flora about the break-in. They need to know. They’re my friends. Friends want to know these kinds of things.
I don’t want to be the friend who always keeps secrets or waits too long to say something. I let out a sharp laugh. I didn’t want to be that friend, yet here I am, alone in front of my apartment after someone nearly choked me to death.
A human would call the police, but refraining from getting humans involved is one of the few laws the Council set for paranormals. Getting humans involved would get the Council involved, which isn’t exactly the save one may think it to be.While the Council has a “let you figure it out among yourselves” mindset, they are quick to handle things, usually by death, once they are dragged into a problem. The Council comprises one of every species: shifter, vampire, fairy, and witch. They decide together what’s fair, or whatever it is they do. I don’t know. I’ve never been involved with them, and they sure don’t advertise their services either.
The walk back into my room isn’t nearly as bad as the walk to my nightstand, where my phone lies. I pick at my orange phone case, feeling the silicone peel as my face gets hot.
I have an itch for something I haven’t done in years. Here I am like an addict, trying to think of a reason I need to make this call.
Standing over my bed, I dial a number I have memorized. I shouldn’t make this call. This is stupid. I don’t need it anymore. I let the phone ring before the voice I haven’t craved to hear in a while finally fills the speaker.
“Hey, this is Milo. Leave a message at the tone.”
This call didn’t hit the same, but the small lingering twinge of hurt will satisfy me. Maybe the hurt I feel is from loving him. Maybe the hurt is from not missing him anymore, I’m not sure. I need it to be the former. I need to know that I still love Milo. That I miss the man who was supposed to be my soul mate. This pang of hurt is the itch I’ve needed. Whether it’s from missing him or the lack thereof, I need this hurt.
5
WILLOW
My video doorbellcamera was the absolute best thing I could’ve ever bought. I get a live feed of my front door to my phone. I can decide right from my bed if I have enough social energy to answer whoever is at the door. The Mailman? Of course. Strangers though? Absolutely not.
It could prevent Ghost from breaking in again, too. At least I’d be able to see him coming next time.
Seeing Layla on the doorbell feed means I do indeed have to crawl out of bed and go answer the door. Sighing, I roll out of bed, pulling my yoga shorts that had ridden up back down to an appropriate length before making my way to the door.
“Please, take your time, Willow; it’s only ninety degrees out here,” I hear Layla say through the app on my phone. I stare at the woman on my screen as I move about my new house. Gosh, she is all grown up now. She straightened her black hair that reaches the bottom of her back now, and her face is covered in makeup in a way I wish I knew how to replicate. Layla is gorgeous, but she always has been. Good genes and all.
I make it to the door and open it wide, seeing my almost sister-in-law in person now. Her dark brown eyes peer into mineas she stands on my new welcome mat with three suitcases behind her and big fur boots covering her feet.
“It’s about to be summer, you know,” I say, finally stepping aside to let her in. I catch a strong whiff of Layla’s scent as she walks by: sugar cookies. She even smells good. I took a sniff of my sweaty self, and while I don’t smell bad, it isn’t good either.
“The boots didn’t fit in the suitcase,” she grumbles, dragging in all three suitcases and twirling to face me. Layla is slightly shorter than me, standing at 5’5”, but that doesn’t stop the woman from pulling me into a soul-crushing hug. “Goddess, I missed you.”
I hardly hear her, but I hug her just as hard. The twenty-year-old will probably never mutter the words again, and all I can do is soak in the moment. She was one of the closest people I had to family back then, and, by the Moon Goddess, I missed her, too.
“Now, show me my room, please.” She breaks the hug and proceeds to gaze around my new house. I’m sure the boxes everywhere aren’t impressive but—hold on. Why did she havethreesuitcases? How long was she planning on staying?
I lead her down the hallway to the second bedroom, where I’ve set up my old bed frame and dresser for her to use. Pulling a suitcase behind me, I show her the guest room.
“I checked this house out online, and it said there were two bedrooms,” Layla mutters as she sits on the bed, pulling off her huge fur boots.
“Don’t you find that creepy?” I ask. Something is off about her, and I’m not sure if it’s because she’s grown up or if something else is going on. Who would stay in someone’s house after accusing them of being a killer?
Even if she is right about me being a—a killer. I didn’t kill her brother. So why is she really here?
“That’s not as creepy as the notes I’ve gotten.”Notes? As in more than one? She opens her suitcases one by one on thebed and pulls out clothes and puts them in the closet as if her statement didn’t make me freeze up. I swiftly turn to face Layla, shocked and confused.
“You got one too?” I ask, sitting in the rocking chair in the room's corner as I watch her unpack.
“Too? I don’t mean letters in the mail, I mean notes left at my doorstep, in my window. Creepy stalkerish notes. Do you even know what I’m talking about?” I suddenly remember how annoying my almost sister-in-law can be.
“Yes, I got one yesterday!” I exclaim. Stomping towards my room, I grab the note from my nightstand, and I drop it on Layla’s lap in the guest room, where she is already making herself comfortable. “Does this look like an admirer’s handwriting?”
“How do you know it’s not typed? Maybe they chose that weird ass font. This may not be the same thing as what I’m getting.” She cocks her head to the side with an eyebrow raised, and my anger flares. I let out a long breath before answering her ridiculous question.
“There are marker strokes. There’s no way this is typed.”
