Chapter 11 The Present #2
Her body’s already decomposing.
The truth can wait.
Talon and Nathaniel should be retrieving what’s left of her right now. Once they have what they need… maybe we drop it somewhere public.
Somewhere it can be found.
Let the people have her back.
But for now, I keep moving.
The side door is shut, but that means nothing to someone who walks halfway in death. Or, at least, it shouldn’t. I press my palm against the wood and focus. My fingers tingle. For a moment, the door holds, like it’s too dense for me to get through. But then I slip through.
“Still got it,” I murmur, glancing down at my hands. I flex them slowly into fists, then lift my chin and take in the hallway ahead.
“Now to grab the stupid object before I run out of juice completely.”
The side hall is narrow. I remember Cassian dragging Laura Collins through here the last time we were in this house. Back then, the details were a blur. Now, everything’s sharp.
Faded floral wallpaper. Dozens of cat-themed picture frames lining the walls. The faint scent of vanilla clinging to the air. White carpet, worn thin, with long freckles of age and foot traffic running its length.
I pass the kitchen and head for the stairs.
The basement door looms ahead, open by the police, and, by the looks of it, this is where the heart of the party is happening.
At least half a dozen officers have been through already.
I can see the muddy ghost of boot prints on the stairs, the drag marks from evidence containers.
Someone scratched a long gouge into the wood, likely hauling something too heavy or too awful to carry.
There are some voices coming from downstairs, full of professional detachment. But I know that sound. That is not the voice of someone processing evidence. That’s the voice of someone trying not to vomit while describing it.
“…still cataloging the last shelf,” someone says. “At least fifteen jars that don’t match anything we’ve logged. Might be teeth. Might be bones. I don’t fucking know, man.”
Another voice answers, sharper. “Everything gets tested. If it came out of this house, it’s priority. She labeled this one ‘Ella – October.’ Kid’s name? Month she took her?”
A silence falls. Heavy.
Then:
“A fucking psycho.”
At least we agree on that, Officer. But if they’re down there cataloging the last shelf, then where the hell am I supposed to find something sentimental? Because I’m not leaving here with a cat photo. I need something she cherished. Something she obsessed over. Dreamed about.
It has to be connected to the murders. Because people like Laura Collins don’t have hobbies. They have rituals. She didn’t daydream about peonies and just happen to poison kids in her spare time. Murder was the point. The obsession. The love, as sick it may be.
So, I’ve got three options:
Option one: head into the basement and hope I don’t glitch into visibility while trying to steal a souvenir from nightmare central.
Option two: search the house, see if Granny Death had something precious stashed upstairs.
Option three: figure out where the rest of the evidence was sent and risk tracking it down later.
I go with option two. Because I’m not a freak.
So I turn away from the basement.
Not today, Satan. Or rather, not today, Laura.
My energy’s barely holding. One wrong move and I’ll flicker into full view right next to a cop holding a jar of baby teeth. And I know I’d lose it if I went down there.
So instead, I move like smoke through the hallway, checking doors as I pass.
A bathroom: mint tile, spotless porcelain, and a hand towel embroidered with kittens.
A guest room: unused, with neatly folded sheets and the faint scent of cedar.
Then, her room.
The master bedroom door stands slightly ajar.
Soft, golden light filters through half-drawn curtains, casting long, faded shadows across the cream carpet. The whole room is pale lilac and polite decay. I step inside, slow and careful. I can’t be heard, but still… it feels like trespassing.
Maybe it’s because I don’t feel like just a specter anymore. Or maybe it’s because she could materialize any second as a goddamn wraith, and the moment my foot touches her—this time pink—plush carpet, she’ll get supernatural ass-tingles and know I’m here.
Either way, I’m pretty sure there’s something in this room we can use.
I head toward the vanity.
It’s old. Real wood, antique mirror, a scattering of perfume bottles and delicate little trinkets. A silver hairbrush. A stack of letters tied with twine…
And then I see it.
A jewelry box.
Not flashy. Not fancy. Just worn dark wood, its edges softened by years of use. The kind of object someone opened a lot. Something personal. Intimate. It feels important.
I reach for it.
And forget I’m not solid.
My hand slips through the lid like I’m made of mist. Just dips into it, smooth and effortless, like I’m haunting the damn thing.
It’s wild how one minute I’m struggling to phase through a door, the next I’m melting into furniture, and sometimes, apparently, I need to screw a six-foot-something walking weapon just to access my powers at all.
Being reborn is… kind of a bitch.
Anyway.
I glance back. Empty corridor. No movement, no sound. I shut my eyes and will myself solid again. It works instantly. It's ten times easier than turning ghostly. So that’s something.
I crack open the box.
Inside, nestled in faded velvet and the dull gleam of tarnished metal, is a necklace. Small. Delicate. A heart-shaped locket. Cliché. Innocent. But the moment I see it, I feel it—the wrongness baked into the silver like dried blood under a manicured nail.
There’s a photo inside.
Black-and-white.
A little girl. Smiling.
Etched on the back, in neat, obsessive cursive:
“My first.”
Oh, hell no.
My hand jerks. I nearly drop the thing.
My stomach flips. My power lurches inside me, rippling like it wants to scream. This was her sentimental object? Not her last. Not her favorite.
Her first.
The one that started it all.
God.
I snap the locket shut and shove it into the inside pocket of Cassian’s pants before I can lose the nerve. If I could, I’d kill her again. Whatever punishment the Department of Life has planned for her soul, it better be biblical.
The taste in my mouth is sour. I move to the window across the room. From here, I can see Cassian’s car, tucked behind a hedge. I squint, searching for his face. Can he see me?
His posture hasn’t shifted much, but his head is tilted, just slightly, toward the window.
I lift my hand and wave.
His gaze snaps up, direct, locked on me.
And then something shifts.
His body tenses. Chin dips. He glances down toward the base of the house, then back up.
He doesn’t wave.
Doesn’t nod.
He moves.
Cassian’s out of the car before I can blink. The door slams shut behind him, and in one fluid motion, he crouches low and slips around the hedge like a shadow with a vendetta.
What the hell?
And that’s when I hear it. A voice behind me. It's too close.
“Who the hell are you?”
I freeze.
My blood goes cold.
I don’t turn around. Not yet. Because that voice, it’s not just close. It’s pointed. Directed at me.
Well, shit.
Before I can decide, a hand clamps around my wrist.
“Hey!” the cop barks. “I said who are—?”
He doesn’t finish.
Because right then, something goes wrong. Not with him. With me.
It’s like getting struck by lightning from the inside out. My whole body jolts, nerves short-circuiting. I lose my footing.
No. It's worse than that.
I lose the floor.
One second, I’m standing on the Candy Maker’s hideous carpet. The next, I’m falling.
Not into the basement.
Not into another room.
Not even into a different part of the house.
I’m falling through nothing.
No sound.
No gravity.
No walls.
No up. No down.
The world winks out like a blown lightbulb, and for one breathless heartbeat, I hang suspended in a pressure-thick void. Like the universe just swallowed me whole and can’t decide whether to spit me out or digest me alive.
My scream catches, stuck behind clenched teeth.
And then—
I land.
Hard. Flat on my back on something cold, solid… and weirdly familiar.
The air rushes from my lungs in a ragged gasp. I lie there blinking up at—
Wait. What?
Above me, branches sway, thick, heavy, draped in falling leaves like long green veils.
A weeping willow.
I sit up slowly. Heart pounding. Nerves ringing.
There’s no mistaking it.
I just got yanked out of the Candy Maker’s house and dumped here. My Gran’s place.
Or, more accurately now, my ex’s and Jessica’s.
The universe swallowed me whole…
And spit me out at the site of my own grave.