Chapter 2 Cassian’s Past #2
She walks ahead, brushing past the overgrown mint as it rustles against her jeans, and climbs the porch steps.
I follow, slower, my hand dragging across the rail.
The wind chimes above us rattle softly. It's the same rusty set from when we were kids, still tangled with the bead we glued on one summer. I thought it was long gone.
The screen door groans open.
“Guys?” Sabine calls. “He’s here.”
Everything looks just like it did when I left. Like time hit pause the second I walked out. The same chipped paint. The same smell. The air inside carries traces of rosemary, lemon cleaner, and something warm from the oven.
Then I cross the threshold, and it all hits at once.
"Look who’s finally home!"
"About time!"
"You hungry? We got your favorite!"
Hands pat my back, squeeze my shoulder, pull me into hugs before I can react. My ruck drops to the floor with a dull thud. My boots are still dusted with the last place I stood before I boarded that plane. My mouth kicks into autopilot, blurting out the usual empty phrases.
Yeah, good to see you too. Yeah, I’m good. Yeah, it’s been a while.
I hate this shit.
I also love it.
It’s... weird as fuck.
Mom pulls me in next, cupping my face like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she lets go.
“My baby,” she whispers into my hair. “You’re so big now. Did you get taller, too?”
I huff a quiet laugh, shaking my head. “Pretty sure I stopped growing a decade ago, Ma.”
She doesn’t hear it, or ignores it. Her fingers trace the lines of my face like she’s trying to memorize every inch, catalog the ways I’ve changed. I don’t stop her. I don’t lean in either. I just stand there and let her do what she needs to do. Let her convince herself I’m whole.
Even if I know better.
There’s no version of me that came back clean. No version that walks out of that uniform without something left behind. Doesn’t matter if it was justified. Doesn’t matter if I’d do it all over again. Killing changes you. Leaves marks. Not always the kind you can see.
I clench my jaw. Swallow hard. Shut it down before it spirals.
Not now. Not here. This isn’t about you.
I force myself to breathe. To look around the room like I belong in it. Like this is just home.
There’s cousin Lena, already laughing too loud, probably half-drunk. She’s always been like that—lived big, loved bigger. She throws an arm around my shoulders like I never left, like I didn’t vanish long enough to forget what this even feels like.
“You look like shit, Cass,” she says, grinning, tipping her beer at me in a lazy half-toast. “Like, actual roadkill. But hey, you’re a hunk now. That must count for something, right?”
“Appreciate that, Lena,” I mutter, smirking back. “That your way of saying you missed me?”
“Damn right.”
And then there’s cousin Mateo, leaning against the kitchen counter with a beer in hand, watching me with that same quiet, steady look he’s always had. His brother’s ex-military. He probably gets it. At least part of it. He just gives me a slow nod.
I nod back.
And then there’s Ava, standing off to the side with her husband. She’s holding a baby on one hip while her oldest—this little girl with wild curls and wide eyes—peeks out from behind her like I’m something unfamiliar. Which, to her, I guess I am.
Last time I saw her, she was barely walking.
Now she’s clinging to Ava’s jeans with one hand, clutching a stuffed rabbit in the other.
She stares at me, unblinking. Ava probably told her not to make me feel weird about it, because after a second, the kid inches forward and holds out the rabbit like she’s offering me a piece of the damn moon.
I stare at it, caught off guard.
“Go on,” Ava murmurs with a soft smile. “She wants you to have it.”
The kid still doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking up at me with those huge, serious eyes. I swallow hard and crouch down, taking the rabbit with a careful grip. It’s well-loved. The fur is matted, one ear is half-detached, and the stuffing shows at the seam.
“Thanks, kid,” I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I meant.
She nods, then scurries back to Ava’s side. I hold the rabbit for a second longer than I probably should, then pass it back. I don’t deserve to keep something that clean.
When I look up again, Sabine’s watching me from across the room.
In the car, she was all easy chatter and sideways smiles, keeping things light. She’s always been like that, so it didn’t seem unusual. But now, something’s different.
Her arms are crossed. Not casually, but tight, like she’s holding herself together. Her phone’s already lit in her hand, thumb hovering like she was checking something before I noticed. When our eyes meet, she locks the screen and slips it into her pocket.
Then, for just a moment, her expression shifts. A flicker in her brows, a slight tightening around her mouth. She looks at me, offers a quick, practiced smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, then turns to join cousin Lena by the kitchen.
Huh. Whatever that was, it doesn’t sit right.
Something’s off.
“Alright, alright,” Ma says, clapping her hands to gather everyone. “Let him breathe! He just got home. We’ll catch up over dinner.”
A few chuckles ripple through the room. People start moving. Cousins drift toward the dining room, plates clatter, and chairs scrape. The press of bodies thins. Conversation spills into the hallway and kitchen.
Dinner is louder than I remembered.
Voices overlap. Silverware clinks. The air smells like roast chicken, garlic, and something buttery from the oven.
No one asks me much, but they still try to include me in the conversation. Mom checks in with Lena about work. Mateo talks sports. Ava and her husband swap stories about their kids.
I nod, smile, say things like “Some things never change” or “Wow, I didn’t know he was walking already”, but the words don’t feel like mine.
What really gets me is that while everyone else seems to be having the time of their lives, Sabine isn’t.
She barely speaks.
She’s sitting right beside me but feels a mile away, pushing food around on her plate. When she thinks no one’s looking, she checks her phone. Just a glance. But I notice the way her fingers tighten around it. The way her lips press flat.
I’ve been away for a while, but if I’ve gotten better at anything—aside from dreaming about things I shouldn’t and being an unapologetic asshole—it’s noticing the little things.
Sabine’s face doesn’t change. If you weren’t looking closely, you’d think she was just bored or zoning out. But I catch the micro-expressions.
She’s stressed. Definitely.
I take another bite, chewing slowly, trying to stay casual. I don’t say anything. Not yet. But I don’t look away either. I let a few minutes pass, let the conversation flow around us. Make sure I’m not imagining it.
Then, when I’m certain, I nudge her knee under the table. Just a small tap. Just enough to pull her focus.
She startles, barely, then glances at me sideways.
“What?”
I don’t answer. Just tilt my head toward where I know her phone must be—tucked in her lap, or under the table, wherever she’s been glancing.
Her eyes flick away. Her fingers tighten just a fraction. Then she exhales through her nose and reaches for her water glass. She takes a sip.
“It’s nothing,” she says.
Huh.
I didn’t even ask.
No raised eyebrow. No question. Just... a defense.
“Mhm,” I murmur, noncommittal. But I’m locked in now.
Across the table, Mom’s still caught up in Lena’s story. Something about a broken coffee machine and a mouse running across her desk. Background noise. No one’s looking our way.
I lean in, drop my voice.
“You checking the weather every five seconds,” I say, “or waiting for a bomb to go off?”
Her shoulder twitches. She doesn’t look at me.
“Drop it,” she mutters.
“Sure,” I say. “Right after you tell me what’s going on.”
No answer. Her jaw sets.
A beat passes.
Then, still not looking at me, she says, “Later. Okay?”
It’s not a no.
I don’t push. Just lean back, nod like I don’t care, and go back to my chicken.
Dinner drags. Ma insists on seconds. There’s pie. Coffee. Too much noise. Too much laughter. I go through the motions, but my focus keeps sliding back to Sabine.
Eventually, the goodbye routine starts. Coats pulled from hooks. Hugs passed around. Kids half-asleep and sugar-sticky.
I help clear a few plates, just enough to not draw attention, then slip out and find Sabine by the back door. She’s standing in the half-light, arms folded, jacket on.
“You ready to talk?” I ask, voice low.
She hesitates. “Cass—”
“Let’s go outside,” I say, forcing a smirk. She already said she’d tell me. I’m not letting her walk it back. “Unless you’re scared of a little fresh air?”
She rolls her eyes but does as I say. “Fine.”
She doesn’t look at her phone this time.
But I know whatever’s on it is coming with her.
“What’s up?” I ask once we’re on the veranda, leaning against the railing, arms crossed.
The sun’s about to set, but there’s still enough light to see how peaceful it looks out here. The clouds drift slow, their edges tinged gold, and the air smells like warm pavement and Mom’s lavender.
If not for my fucked-up state of mind, it would feel like paradise.
Sabine crosses her arms too, mirroring me, but hers isn’t casual. It’s a wall. Her posture says she doesn’t want to be here. Doesn’t want to talk. Too bad.
“Nothing, Cass,” she says, too fast. “I just—” She stops herself, drags a hand through her hair like it’ll buy her time. “I didn’t want to bring it up in there.”
I don’t say anything. Just wait. Let the silence stretch between us.
Eventually, she exhales, sharp and uneven. “There’s been… some stuff going on. It’s not serious. Just weird. Mom doesn’t need the stress.”
“Stuff,” I echo, voice flat. “That’s vague.”
She shifts her weight, eyes skimming the garden.
“Some weird messages,” she says finally. A few phone calls. Always from blocked numbers. At first, I thought it was just spam, but they keep coming.”
“What kind of messages?” I ask.
She hesitates again. Her hand moves slowly but eventually she pulls her phone from her pocket. Unlocks it. Scrolls. Then holds it out to me.
The screen lights up with a list of short, quiet horrors.
Funny how routine makes people blind. You park in the same spot every day.
Lavender perfume. A good choice. Mother's influence, perhaps?
I wonder what you dream about.
I read them once. Then again.
They’re short. Casual. But too specific. Too familiar. Every word chosen with precision.
My pulse stays steady, but it feels heavier. Like it’s dragging something up from the pit of my gut.
I check the timestamps. Whoever this is, they’ve been at it a while. A new message almost every day. And the most recent—
Who is that man you brought home? Is he your lover?
I stare at it.
That message came during dinner.
I feel something twist behind my ribs—tight and instinctive. Protective. Ugly.
“How long?” I ask, voice low.
Sabine looks away. “A couple weeks. Maybe more. It’s random. Not every day. I blocked the numbers, but they just use new ones. I figured it was some dumb prank, but then…”
Her voice thins. She pauses. Swallows.
“I started getting gifts.”
That makes me look at her sharper now. “Gifts?”
She nods, once. “Left on the porch.”
There’s a pause, like she’s lining it all up in her head, trying to make it sound less insane than it is.
“First it was flowers. Lavender. Wrapped with twine, all neat. Thought it was from a neighbor or something. Just… a nice gesture. But then a few days later, there was a dart. One of those little ones from a bar game. Just lying there.”
She breathes in through her nose.
“After that, a pair of gloves. Leather. Black. My size. Still had the tag on.”
She looks at me, jaw tight. “I threw them all out. Didn’t tell Mom. Didn’t want to freak her out over something that might’ve just been… nothing.”
It’s not nothing.
“Sabine,” I say carefully, keeping my tone level. “This isn’t something you keep to yourself.”
“I didn’t want Mom to worry.”
“You should’ve told me.”
Her shoulders tense, jaw already set like she’s bracing for a lecture.
“You weren’t here, Cass,” she snaps. “I wasn’t gonna call you in the middle of some classified op just to say I got creepy flowers on the porch.”
I exhale slowly. Bite down on the frustration building in my chest. She's not wrong. Not really. She’s always been the one holding things together. She didn’t want to seem weak. Didn’t want to bother me.
But still.
She shouldn’t have had to carry this alone.
Not this.
“Well,” I say, taking the phone again, “good that I’m back, then.”
I thumb through the messages once more. The texts are just vague enough to keep the sender safe, just personal enough to keep Sabine off-balance. Whoever’s behind this knows exactly what they’re doing.
The wording’s cool. Measured. Like they’re not trying to scare her.
Not yet.
They're enjoying the anticipation. Drawing it out. Letting her stew.
And that last one—
Who is that man you brought home? Is he your lover?
They were watching tonight.
Close enough to see me.
Close enough to send that while we were all laughing over pie.
That’s the fucking line.
Something sharp locks in behind my ribs. It's not quite fear, not quite rage. It’s that stillness I know too well. The shift. The readiness. The part of me that doesn’t hesitate when shit gets real.
I hand the phone back to her. “You’re gonna forward all of these to me.”
She stiffens. “Cass—”
“No arguments.” My voice is quiet but final. “I’m not Mom, Sabbie. I’m not gonna pretend this’ll work itself out.”
I look her straight in the eyes. “Who else knows?”
She hesitates. Then shakes her head. “Just me. And now you.”
All right.
I run a hand over my face, pulling my thoughts into order.
First step: pattern analysis. Message times, frequency, proximity. Someone knows her routine better than they should.
Second step: barriers. Change the locks. Check the security system. Reestablish control.
Third step: confrontation.
Because whoever this is?
They just made the biggest mistake of their life.
No sick fuck targets my sister and walks away from it.
I’ll make damn sure of that.