Chapter 12 The Present
I’d be lying if I said getting dropped beneath my old willow tree was how I pictured revisiting my ex-husband and his not-so-charming new wife after being resurrected.
Falling face-first into the mud, with my hair already turning into soggy dreadlocks?
Yeah, that wasn’t part of the fantasy.
But here we are.
Again.
At my grave.
Like it’s got some damn magnet in it.
I groan and push myself upright, every joint protesting. The back of my head throbs like I just fell two stories, and my clothes—excuse me, Cassian’s clothes—are wrecked. Not exactly the thank-you he was hoping for, I’m sure.
But screw it.
Apparently, the universe didn’t factor in his one rare act of kindness before flinging me back here.
I look up.
The willow tree looms overhead, its branches swaying like they’re mourning something. Last time I was here, I could climb them without touching the ground and just sit on my favorite branch, watching the world go by.
Now? I get chills just thinking about it.
What the hell was I even doing all those years? Sitting here watching Mark live his happy little life? Like some pathetic ghost, chained to a man who didn’t deserve an ounce of my attention.
I should’ve been roaming the world. Chasing sun-kissed beaches and hot Hawaiian men until the pull dragged me back here, not moping like a widow in a melodrama.
I’ve been torturing myself. And yeah, I blame him for that too.
Useless, cruel fucker.
Didn’t even give me a proper burial. Just left me here, locked in a loop, waiting forever.
Not anymore.
I stagger to my feet, wiping mud off my palms and onto my thighs.
The universe might not care about Cassian’s good deeds, but it sure as hell seems to care about mine.
(I decide to ignore the fact it was probably my own subconscious that redirected my power. Not divine fate. Just me, thinking that haunting Mark was better than crawling through the Candy Maker’s house a second longer.)
Still.
If the universe dumped me here with my powers rebooted, it wants something.
And I don’t waste gifts.
Even messy ones.
“Let’s see what we’ve got,” I mutter.
The grave looks the same.
Fresh-cut grass. Surgical dirt marks where Nathaniel played corpse surgeon. No headstone. No name. No trace of me, just silence.
I glance toward the house.
White shutters. That stupid porch swing Jessica added last year. Sunflower cushion and all. I remember. She posted it on Facebook.
"A fresh start, in full bloom."
I wonder if she knew she was ten feet from my rotting corpse when she typed that.
Of course she didn’t.
My lips twitch.
I take a step toward the edge of the willow’s shade.
The porch light is on.
Which means someone’s home.
And… fuck. The idea of marching up and knocking like some muddy ghost-Girl Scout suddenly tempts me more than it should.
God, I’d love to walk up there, caked in dirt, freshly resurrected, and watch his face crack wide open when he sees who’s standing on his spotless welcome mat.
Jessica wouldn’t recognize me. She doesn’t know who I am.
But him?
Oh, he’d break.
I know it.
The only question is how.
Would he choke out my name? Freeze up? Start hyperventilating like he used to during those nightmares, thinking I’ve come to expose him, to tie him to Duvall’s murder and shatter the little life he’s stitched together?
Or worse, would he convince himself I’m not real? Just some hallucination, a side effect of the sleeping pills he hoards like an insurance policy against guilt?
Hard to say.
Then again, Mark’s my literal fucking murderer. What are the odds he freezes on the spot… versus the odds he lunges, wraps those disgusting hands around my throat again?
Even with Jessica there, there’s no guarantee he won’t snap. If he decides he’s hallucinating, who’s to say he won’t go full-blown psycho? And I don’t trust my powers nearly enough to keep me from dying a second time.
No.
As tempting as it is to show up and ruin his night right now, revenge has to be careful. Controlled.
Unfortunately, it always did.
Even back when I was promised all the time and resources I’d need to punish him once he died, I knew it would take restraint to truly break him in the afterlife. There, I’d have the upper hand. I’d be in total control. But even then, finesse would still be the key.
Now, the circumstances have changed, but that point still stands.
The best revenge isn’t loud.
It’s not messy or quick or even bloody.
It’s slow.
It’s the kind that starts with a whisper and ends with the screaming.
That’s the kind I intend to perform.
I crouch, half-hidden beneath the willow’s curtain of dripping leaves. My fingers find the edge of the locket in my pocket—Laura’s little treasure—and I make a mental note not to lose it.
My shitshow of a husband values control more than anything. I’d like to say his connection to Jessica is real—something pure, something passionate—but let’s not kid ourselves. It’s strategic. Convenient. Just like every other choice Mark has ever made.
Jessica is soft. Predictable. Manageable. The kind of woman who thinks “trust your gut” is a metaphor, not a biological survival mechanism.
He didn’t choose a partner.
He chose an audience.
So, no. She’s not the angle.
He is.
I need to make Mark lose his absolute fucking mind.
Then I’ll make him lose everything else.
Step one? A slow, psychological strip-tease of dread.
I push off the tree and move, circling toward the front of the house.
I’ve been watching them long enough to know where Jessica hides her spare key.
Sadly, it’s not cliché enough to call her stupid.
It’s not under the doormat, not in a fake rock, not even taped under the porch swing like some rom-com reject.
No. Jessica’s idea of security is slightly above average.
Which is annoying, because I’d love to call her a moron while breaking into her picture-perfect life.
Instead, it’s tucked inside an old, hollowed-out birdhouse nailed to the far post of the porch.
Yeah, my old birdhouse. I put it there.
But fuck it.
I reach in, brushing past dry straw until my fingers catch on cold metal.
Gotcha.
I let myself in slow.
The house smells like chamomile and bleach. It’s spotless, of course. Nothing of its old charm has survived.
I pad down the hall, dripping mud across their pristine little runner like it’s my personal mission.
Then I head for the fridge.
I open it. Grab the stupid glass milk bottle they always buy, because Mark read somewhere that plastic lowers testosterone, and pour a splash onto the counter. Just enough.
Then, with one finger, I drag through it, writing a single word in white across the black granite.
Wife.
That’ll rattle him. Because it could mean me. Or Jessica. Or both.
Doesn’t matter, it’ll start the spiral either way.
Maybe he’ll wonder if someone knows his ex-wife killed Duvall. Maybe he’ll think Jessica’s losing her mind.
That’s enough for now.
As the cherry on top, I head back to the entryway, grab a sticky note from the bowl beside the keys, and press it to the front of their gleaming stainless steel fridge.
Simple. Almost sweet.
Lovely is the song crows sing.
And beneath it, in smaller letters:
As if they’re trying to say something.
Chef’s kiss.
I lock the door on my way out. Return the key to the birdhouse.
Dust off my hands and slip back beneath the willow just as the floorboards creak faintly upstairs.
I don’t stay to see who comes downstairs.
I don’t need to.
I spent enough time watching.
Let the haunting happen in the background, for once.
Coming back to Laura Collins’ house feels like waking from a fever dream only to realize you’re still sick, just a little less sweaty about it.
I don’t remember the exact moment I shift again.
Not really. One minute I’m wandering the edge of suburbia, picking dried leaves out of my hair like I didn’t just commit psychological warfare via dairy.
The next, the world buzzes beneath my skin like it’s rebooting.
That weird pressure builds again, like my atoms can’t decide which plane to land on, and just when I think I’m about to collapse into someone’s backyard birdbath, snap—
I’m standing.
Right next to Cassian’s creepy car.
Same soaked clothes. Same graveyard perfume. Same milky dirt caked under my nails. But this time, I’m upright and stable, which is a major upgrade.
You’d think a guy like Cassian could keep himself out of trouble in my absence, right?
Well… not exactly.
Last I saw him, right before I blinked out, not exactly by choice, he was mid-sneak into a crime scene to keep me from being spotted by a cop. Sweet of him. Never thought he’d do that for me.
But I’ve been gone at least thirty minutes. And things have… escalated.
Cassian in the car? Gone.
Cassian hiding in the bushes? Also gone.
Cassian standing in front of the house in handcuffs? Oh, very much present.
Two officers flank him. A third stands directly in front. He's older, gray at the temples, straight-backed, exuding that tired authority cops wear like aftershave. Probably the lead investigator the others mentioned.
I instinctively step back, pressing against the trunk of a tree like that’ll somehow hide the grave rot still clinging to me.
My gut twists. Not with guilt—okay, maybe a little—but mostly with a spiraling cocktail of panic and rage.
Because if they take Cassian in, and they run his prints, and those prints lead to a trail of convenient corpses and warzone-grade destruction, then…
We’re screwed. All of us.
The lead officer steps closer to him. He’s older, solid, gray at the temples, with that weary, unshakeable cop posture. He looks like the kind of man who’s seen too much and learned to bury it.
His sunglasses come off slow.
Then he sees Cassian.
And his world visibly tilts.
“What the hell…” the man murmurs. His voice is soft. Cracked at the edges. “Cassian?”
Cassian doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t answer. He just watches the man like a bad memory come to life.