Chapter 8 Cassian’s Past #2
Grayson, Ava’s husband, opens the door wearing sweatpants and a faded department store T-shirt, clutching a chipped coffee mug like it’s the only thing holding him together. There’s a fresh orange stain on the front of his shirt, and a matching crust around the rim of the mug.
His eyebrows lift when he sees me on the porch, caught off guard mid-sip.
“Cassian,” he says.
I nod. “Sorry for showing up unannounced.”
“You here to see Ava?”
“Uh, no, actually.” I rub the back of my neck. “I came to see you. Thought you might be able to help me with something.”
He doesn’t move right away. Just stares at me for a few seconds longer than feels natural. Then he sighs and steps aside.
“Alright. Come in. I feel like shit most days lately, but I’m not exactly turning visitors away. Not that I get many. Everyone’s too busy fussing over the baby.”
The house smells like syrup and baby powder and something vaguely sour underneath.
A kid is crying somewhere upstairs, high and shrill.
Another one sits in the living room surrounded by stuffed animals, watching cartoons at full blast. The TV’s volume is turned up so loud it makes the floor vibrate.
I follow him into the kitchen. He sets his mug on the counter and leans against it, folding his arms across his chest like he needs the support just to stay upright.
There’s a toddler in a high chair, face, hands, and clothes covered in orange mush. The same paste clings to the tray in front of him, and there's a plastic spoon on the floor, already stepped on.
Which…explains all Grayson’s stains and then some.
“You almost look as bad as I do, Cassian,” Grayson says, glancing sideways at the baby. There’s love in that gaze, but also… a bone-deep exhaustion, like he hasn’t slept properly in three years and forgot what silence sounds like. “Not that I’m one to talk.”
I offer a tight smile, but I don’t bother pretending I came for a chat. I didn’t. There’s no point in softening the reason I’m here.
“I need to ask a favor.”
Grayson raises a brow, grabs a wet wipe from a pack on the table, and starts cleaning the baby’s cheeks with slow, practiced motions.
“Shoot.”
“It’s about Sabine.”
That gets him. His hand stills mid-air, the wipe bunched in his fingers. He stares at the baby for a moment longer, but I can tell he’s not really seeing him anymore.
I watch the shift roll through him. The fatigue in his posture doesn’t disappear. It just recedes. Folds itself behind something sharper. Older. Protectiveness, maybe. Or a sense of duty etched so deep into him it’s practically reflex.
This family takes care of its own. Especially the women.
“What about her?” he asks.
“She’s being stalked,” I say. No sugarcoating. “She’s been getting texts. Anonymous gifts left on the porch. Calls from blocked numbers. It’s been going on for a while. Weeks, maybe longer.”
Grayson’s jaw tightens. “Has she reported it?”
I shake my head. “No. She didn’t want to make anyone worry. Thought it might stop on its own.”
He breathes out slowly, like he’s trying to rein in his reaction. His jaw ticks again as he processes the information.
“And is it serious now?”
I nod. “The bastard was watching the welcome-home party you all threw for me. Sent a message right after it ended.”
I pull out my phone and show him the screenshots. Sabine sent them all to me after we talked. The messages, the photos of the porch gifts. The last one still makes my stomach twist: Who is that man you brought home? Is he your lover?
Grayson reads it in silence, his face unreadable. Then he looks up at me.
“Yeah,” he says. “That’s serious.” He hands the phone back and takes a long drink from his mug before setting it down with a soft clink. “You think this guy’s local?”
“He has to be,” I say. “He’s either planted cameras or he’s close enough to watch the house in real time. No one guesses that kind of detail unless they’re there. Consistently.”
Grayson nods once, sharp and decisive. The police officer in him is already assembling options.
“Alright,” he says. “You want me to pull her call logs? Get her on a trace list?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Anything you can do without it going through the official channels. She’s still freaked out about drawing attention.”
“She’s not wrong,” he mutters. “The second it goes through official channels, there’s a paper trail. That alone can push the wrong kind of man over the edge. Guys like this, they feed on control. The moment they feel it slipping, they spiral. Get sloppy. Dangerous.”
He pauses, glancing down at the baby, who is now chewing on the edge of a toy block.
“Gotta handle men like that carefully,” he adds.
I nod, jaw tight. “Yeah. I figured.”
I pause, then draw a breath and say what’s really on my mind.
“But honestly? I’d rather scare the bastard off than sit around waiting for him to show up with a knife.
Or worse. Letting him dictate the timeline, letting Sabine live under that kind of pressure.
It’s not an option. I’m not going to be here forever, and I don’t want to get shipped out while this is still unresolved.
Still hanging over her like a loaded gun. ”
I shake my head, the unease settling deeper in my gut.
“That guy… I’ve got a bad feeling about him. It’s not just stalker behavior. It’s something else. Something worse.”
Grayson studies me, then nods slowly.
“You think it could get violent.”
I meet his eyes. “If I were this guy? And I’d made it this far without getting caught?” I pause, let the words sink in. “Yeah. I’d be planning something.”
He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t try to downplay it.
“Alright,” he says again, quieter now. “I’ll talk to someone I trust at the precinct. We’ll keep it off the books. See if we can get a tag on the number, trace the origin. Might take a couple of days, though.”
“Good,” I say. “Thank you.”
“Oh, and I’ll need Sabine to send the messages herself,” he adds. “Chain of evidence.”
“I’ll talk to her.”
He watches me for a beat, long and steady. “You watching her?”
“Every second I can.”
He gives a short nod, grim and approving. “Good. Keep doing that.”
I push off the counter and head for the door, but he calls my name before I get there.
“Cassian.”
I pause, glance back.
“If this escalates, if you even think it’s heading that way, you bring her here. No debate. Understood?”
There’s no room for argument in his tone, but he doesn’t need to say more. I nod, once. Solid. Certain.
“Yes, sir.”
I wouldn’t have it any other way.