Chapter 9
LIZA
Ifind Cassian exactly where I left him: half leaning against the battered kitchen counter in my apartment, folding bakery tissue into abstract origami.
He's making a crane that would make the local witchcraft guild cry, and I have a sudden, unhelpful urge to snap a picture of it just to prove to someone later that this really happened.
The Blackthorn Bay police chief, who once bench-pressed a feral minotaur, is now giving himself a paper cut on a pastry wrapper.
No one would buy it.
Except maybe Zadok.
But he's probably got a betting pool already in motion.
"What's your take?" Cassian asks.
He doesn't look up, but I can tell he's watching me in the reflection of the microwave door, subtle as a full moon.
I don't answer right away because I'm distracted by the faint hint of citrus—something left over from the cleaner I used on the counters last night, or maybe a new clue, given the recent trend.
"Either I have a secret twin with a penchant for antique coins and exotic bulbs, or someone out there thinks they're very funny."
I pour myself coffee from the tiny French press—a housewarming gift from Cassian, which he immediately declared "insufficient for a proper homicide investigation."
Says a lot about both of us, honestly.
He grunts and lines up the origami crane beside the coins, which now occupy an entire section of my salt-stained cutting board.
"I'll do another sweep before dusk and check with Enoch after his nap. Until then, you're not leaving this apartment."
The protective streak again.
Blunt enough to edge a steak knife.
There was a time when I might've resented the command.
Today it sounds almost companionable.
"So I'm under house arrest with a were-cop. Didn't see that on my bingo card this month."
I trail my finger through the ring left by my mug, a kid's imitation of a magic circle.
"You're more freaked out than I am."
"I'm not—"
He stops himself.
Then starts over.
"Nobody's getting through the night shift if there's a hole in your wall and something creeping around inside it."
I think about last night.
The windless hush before bed.
The certainty that I was being watched by something more than insomnia.
He's right.
But still.
"What's your plan if nothing else happens?"
Cassian shrugs.
The motion lasts less than a heartbeat.
"Hope you get bored and go back to planning the next holiday parade."
The idea makes me smile.
Which is to say: not at all.
"I have to finish the new vendor map by Wednesday. And I promised Clover I'd babysit her secret sourdough starter at the bakery next weekend."
I don't know why I say it except to remind myself that life keeps moving, even with shadow letters and mystery coins piling up in my kitchen.
He finally looks at me.
I can see the exhaustion in his eyes.
"You okay?"
"Maybe," I admit. "I just want to know why."
He nods.
It feels like a treaty.
"Give it a day. I'll stay. If nothing else, I've been threatened by less polite stalkers."
I want to say thank you.
For staying.
For making the thing in my walls feel like a problem we'll solve together.
Instead I say, "You better not eat all my cinnamon raisin bread."
A grin flashes across his face before disappearing again.
"No promises."
The day passes in increments, each hour marked by another minor weirdness.
Just before noon, the ficus I've been nursing on the windowsill—the ficus that's only technically a ficus at this point—looks fractionally less dead.
Its leaves, which have spent months in a state of passive-aggressive shriveling, sit upright and glossy.
Tiny threads of new green appear at the tips.
I notice it while talking to Marlena about summer festival logistics.
"You changed the dirt?" she asks.
"I bet it's the new fertilizer. Those hydroponic witches are always improving their products."
I glance at the unopened bag of MiracleGro beneath my sink.
"Must be the air."
My voice sounds thin even to me.
The next thing is a mug.
One I'd given up finding months ago.
Lost somewhere in the lawless wasteland beneath my bed.
Now it sits clean on the dish rack.
Warm from a recent rinse.
Cassian finds me staring at it the same way someone might stare at a message in a bottle washed ashore.
"What?" he asks.
I point.
"Do ghosts wash dishes?"
He considers.
"Depends. Poltergeists usually break things. If it's a spirit, it's a new one. The local ghosts mostly rearrange furniture and terrorize newcomers."
There's no static in the air.
No magical residue.
Still, I run water from the faucet just to make sure it flows normally.
Cassian watches me.
"Anything you want to tell me?"
I think about my grandmother's funeral.
About walking into empty rooms and swearing I could still smell her perfume.
I think about the copper spiral hidden inside my wall.
Then I decide to stick with the basics.
"If it's a ghost, it's a polite one."
"I'll keep my spidey sense on standby."
He smiles.
"Good plan."
We spend the afternoon doing almost nothing.
I try to read and fail.
I try to cook and burn half the pasta.
Cassian occupies my couch with a book so battered it may have witnessed the invention of paper.
For someone so restless, he's remarkably serene when he's planted.
Legs stretched out.
Book balanced in one hand.
Completely absorbed in whatever history of law enforcement Zadok dug out of the demon archives.
I catch myself watching him.
Not even discreetly.
I think about something Marlena said a few days ago.
You two are the last two to know, huh?
She meant it as a joke. At least I think she did.
Now, sitting in the thick afternoon silence broken only by turning pages, I'm not so sure.
After dusk, I step onto the balcony to water my newly resurrected ficus.
Lights blink on across the courtyard. Televisions glow. Dinners cook. Ordinary lives unfold behind ordinary windows.
I wonder if my mystery friend is watching. And from where.
A yowl rises from below. It resolves, eventually, into Gomez's familiar irritated meow.
I glance down. He's pacing the railing, moonlit and offended by existence. He freezes. Looks over his shoulder. Then bolts through the cracked balcony door.
I follow him inside.
Instead of heading toward the bathroom, he makes a beeline for Cassian. The cat circles twice before settling directly in his lap. Cassian doesn't move him. Doesn't even try.
"That's new," I say.
"He knows a protector when he sees one."
A smile tugs at his mouth. "Or he's cold. Wolves make excellent heating pads."
I don't think Gomez has ever sat in my lap.
I also don't think I've ever wanted to trade places with my cat.
Yet here we are.
An hour later, I find Cassian asleep on the couch, his book resting crooked across his chest and one arm curled protectively around Gomez.
The traitor.
The cat is purring loudly enough to be heard from the kitchen.
For a minute, I just stand there. The apartment is quiet except for Gomez and the distant groan of a foghorn out on the bay.
Cassian's head has fallen back against the cushions. One large hand still rests loosely on the book. He's exhausted. Not because of a double shift. Not because of paperwork. Because of me.
Because someone started leaving flowers and coins in my apartment, and Cassian decided that meant he wasn't leaving me alone.
Something tightens in my chest.
It's not guilt.
It's worse.
Gratitude. The dangerous kind.
The kind that starts looking an awful lot like affection if you stare at it too long.
Carefully, I drape a blanket over him.
His eyes never open. But one corner of his mouth lifts. Like he knows.
I retreat before he can catch me being sentimental.
Instead, I scroll through the local neighborhood feed.
Three new posts catch my eye.
A missing mailbox that reappeared two hours later.
A batch of lemon bars left on someone's doorstep.
Still warm.
No fingerprints.
And the recurring specter at the coffeehouse apparently left behind a shot glass of espresso and a business card that simply read:
It's Always the Second Cup.
I stare at the screen. There's a pattern here. Like a trail of gifts. Not just for me. For anyone paying attention.
At midnight—because apparently that's when the universe schedules all its nonsense—I hear a noise from the living room.
Not a crash. Not a footstep. Just the soft, crystalline ping of glass.
I step out of my bedroom. Gomez is perched on the arm of the sofa, tail puffed and eyes bright as floodlights. Cassian is awake. The book is gone, and a cheese danish rests in his open palm.
He blinks up at me. "Did you leave this here?"
I stop. "What?"
He lifts the pastry. "I thought you bought it."
"I thought you bought it."
For a second, we just stare at each other. Then we both look toward the kitchen. A clean plate sits on the counter. Beside it is a folded napkin. And tucked into a shot glass is a single blue tulip. Smaller than the others. Delicate and fresh. Neither of us moves.
Cassian sets the danish down carefully.
His expression shifts from concern to confusion. Slowly. Painfully.
"What?" I ask.
He shakes his head. “I don't know."
Which, coming from Cassian Wolfridge, might be the most alarming thing he's ever said.
I stare at the tulip.
At the neatly folded napkin. At the pastry neither of us bought. At the impossible care behind all of it.
For the first time since this started, I don't feel threatened. I feel watched.
And somehow, that's stranger.
"We need a new plan," I say.
Cassian nods.
"Yeah."
His gaze stays fixed on the flower.
"Because none of this makes any sense."