7. Liza
LIZA
It starts with the smallest flicker of wrongness, the kind you almost convince yourself is in your head.
Sunlight filters through the blinds, striping my living room with gold as always. The ficus is still rocking its tragic, half-dead leaves. The battered copy of Anne Carson that's been my reading companion for weeks is on the coffee table, not the sofa where I'd left it last night.
I blink at the displacement.
Not a big deal, but it burrows in.
Same for the yellow tulips, absurdly cheerful in their glass vase, center stage on the dining table exactly where I'd put them. But something is off in the curve of their arrangement, the way they face the window as if someone hid behind the curtains and gently turned them.
My first instinct is self-incrimination.
Maybe I did this, sleepwalking through the aftermath of yesterday's drama.
I make coffee and try to shake the feeling, but all morning it's like the apartment keeps shifting around me. A poster hangs slightly straighter than my own neurotic standards would allow. The TV remote has subtly migrated across the sideboard.
It isn't until I go to fill Gomez's food dish that I notice the kicker.
His battered felt mouse with the missing ear, which is always under the radiator, is now placed with surgical precision beside his water bowl.
A tiny, terrifying display of tidiness that Gomez is genetically incapable of.
He's too busy doing his best impression of a throw rug in a sunbeam, but when I crouch beside him, he flicks his head toward the hallway in one of those slow, deliberate movements cats make when they're not really looking at you.
My phone buzzes on the counter, and I lurch for it, half hoping it's Cassian, half hoping it isn't.
It's work.
A funny GIF from Marlena about city council's "storm of hot air," followed by a request from Zadok to send him the upcoming festival schedule "before claws get involved."
I shoot off a reply, then tell myself again that I'm being ridiculous.
The apartment is locked.
I double-checked the wards last night.
Then I triple-checked them because I'm like this now.
If someone got in, it's because I'm coming undone, not because I missed a lock.
Except there's the coin.
Yesterday there were three, stacked like a joke on my windowsill.
Now there are four.
The new one is gold and heavy, and I know for certain I didn't own it because it's the kind of thing Cassian would notice and roll his eyes about. Also because I would have thrown it into my "junk that may be cursed" drawer just to be safe.
I stare at the coin until my scalp prickles.
There's a point where fear crosses from adrenaline into a hollow, high-pitched plane of clarity.
I hit it the second I see the coin.
The only thing stronger than my need for independence is my desire not to die at the hands of a supernatural creep.
So I do what any rational adult would do.
I call Cassian.
He answers before the second ring, his voice a low rasp.
"Liza. Did something happen?"
I want to make a joke, but all that comes out is:
"It's here again."
He's at my door in under three minutes, which is impressive even by Cassian standards unless he'd already been hanging around the block.
He doesn't knock.
He just does that controlled-wrecking-ball thing where he opens the door with barely restrained force and scans the room, not even pretending to look casual.
"What do you see?" he asks, stepping into my personal space like a human shield.
I wave a hand toward the table.
"Flowers are the same. Book moved. Remote moved. Gomez's mouse is next-level weird."
I fetch the coin and hold it up between us.
"This wasn't here last night."
He studies it, nostrils flaring.
"You touch anything else?"
I almost laugh because it feels like an accusation, but there's nothing funny about the way he's examining every sight line and every corner of the room.
"No. I just... noticed."
He crouches and runs a gloved hand along the leg of the table, as if dust might reveal prints. Like the suspect would be that stupid.
"Nothing else disturbed?"
I shake my head.
Then I see him notice something on the kitchen counter.
The tulips from last night have a faint watery sheen along one leaf, like someone dripped condensation from a glass.
He swabs it with a paper towel and bags it.
"Creepy or considerate?" I ask.
If you scrub out the context, the gestures haven't been threatening. Just perfectly, utterly violating.
Cassian rises, and there's a new tension in his jaw.
"Doesn't matter which. It's still a breach. Suggests capability and intent."
I want to sass that line, but honestly, the air is too dense.
"You think they were here while I was home?"
"What I think," Cassian says, lowering his voice, "is you should let me stay here. Like a stakeout. Until we figure this out. You shouldn't have to face it alone."
Heat flushes up my neck.
"So your plan is to move in? Play house while I'm the guinea pig?"
He softens a fraction.
"Liza, this is targeted. Obsessed. You're the variable. Having me here changes the game. Give me one night."
I press my lips together.
"I don't need a babysitter."
"Not babysitting. Backup. If they're not playing by physical rules, you can't handle it all yourself."
My pride bristles, but underneath it I'm grateful.
"Fine. But I'm not some kid you tuck in at night."
"Deal."
He lets that ride.
Cassian strides through the apartment, inspecting every lock and latch.
He tests the deadbolt, checks the windowsills, and even inspects the cat flap Gomez pretends not to know about.
Satisfied, he glances at the sprinkler head and the attic hatch, eyes flicking through a mental list of supernatural entry points longer than a plumber's directory.
"Anything else?" he asks.
I shake my head, pretending confidence.
Gomez pads over and presses against Cassian's ankle, purring like a miniature threat.
Cassian kneels and scratches behind the cat's ears.
I don't know which unsettles me more—the jittery cat or Cassian's open gentleness.
Suddenly Gomez darts toward the bathroom doorway, tail puffed, gaze fixed on an empty patch of tile.
He emits a soft, wary mewl.
Cassian is upright in an instant, phone in hand.
He steps into the bathroom but finds nothing.
Just that same cold, prickling sensation of being watched.
He doesn't leave.
He settles onto the couch like he always intended to stay, jacket still on, arms crossed.
I stand in the hallway for a moment, breathing in his aftershave mingled with something wild beneath it, then decide not to make it weird.
Gomez immediately claims the armrest beside him and warbles at shadows.
In my bedroom, I check every closet and corner before collapsing onto the bed.
My nerves hum.
Sleep comes in tight, uneasy bursts.
Dreams of endless stairs lined with yellow tulips.
Cassian shifting between wolf and man, always guarding a door I can't open.
By sunset, I'm still rattled, though the apartment shows no new signs of intrusion.
The tulips droop, defeated.
I scroll through news apps, open a bottle of pinot, and make scrambled eggs for two.
Cassian eats without comment.
Gomez keeps vigil in the hall, occasionally darting toward the bathroom or staring at the ceiling.
The next morning, I find Cassian already awake.
Coffee made.
Standing at the window with that particular stillness that means he's been up for a while.
He nods toward the railing below.
I follow his gaze.
A single yellow tulip sits on the railing, fresh, its petals trembling in the breeze.
A note is tucked beneath it.
Miss Morales,
Your cat appears in excellent health.
I remain delighted by his enthusiasm.
Respectfully Yours
Every hair on my arms stands at attention.
"That's new," I whisper.
Cassian's brow furrows.
"Yeah."
I stare at the note.
The language feels strange. Formal. Old-fashioned. Almost polite.
Which somehow makes it worse.
Cassian reaches for his phone.
"I don't know who this is," he says quietly. "But we're about to find out."