Chapter 13
LIZA
Iwake with the conviction that I'm still being observed.
Which turns out to be true.
Cassian is at the table.
Gomez is at the foot of my bed.
Both are watching me with an attentiveness that feels less like surveillance and more like coordinated caretaking.
Cassian is already dressed. He must've gotten up, showered, and made coffee while I lingered in the space between sleep and responsibility.
Sunlight pushes through the cloud cover for a rare appearance.
For once, the apartment smells like coffee instead of stress.
I don't start the day in a panic, which is suspicious all by itself.
Instead, I wander into the kitchen and make a rude joke about Cassian's ancient badge collection.
He's reading the police blotter on his phone, already halfway into work mode, but he looks up when I enter.
For a second, maybe two, something unguarded flashes across his face.
It makes me want to grab him and kiss him until neither of us remembers our own names.
Instead, I pour coffee and pretend to be normal.
I fail.
"You seeing anything juicy?" I ask.
He huffs.
"Depends on your definition. Someone tried to organize a cryptid parade at midnight. Five calls about raccoon shifters in a compost pile. Zadok's arguing with the HOA president online again."
"High crimes."
I nudge his shoulder.
His mouth twitches.
Then he sets down his mug.
"I need to stop by the station."
The words are casual.
The look isn't.
"You'll be okay here?"
I smile.
"I'll survive. Unless I get drafted into float construction."
He nods.
Then leans down and presses a kiss near my temple.
Brief.
Careful.
Dangerous.
"Call if anything weird happens."
"That narrows it down."
His smile finally appears.
Then he's gone.
The apartment immediately feels quieter.
Which is ridiculous.
He's only been gone ten seconds.
Gomez hops onto the couch.
The coffee still smells the same.
The flowers are still on the table.
Nothing has changed.
Except everything has.
By ten o'clock, I've alphabetized event permits, answered emails, and spent an embarrassing amount of time thinking about the shape of Cassian's hand against my back.
I give up and text him.
Me: How am I supposed to get work done when you keep leaving the place all calm and emotionally supportive?
Ten minutes later, my phone buzzes.
Instead of a reply, it's a photo.
Gomez sitting on the couch.
Staring at the blue flowers.
Cassian: Gomez says you're safe.
Cassian: Also I can see the coffee mug you didn't wash from here.
Me: Lies. I washed it.
Me: Gomez is a known liar.
Cassian: If you want, I'll stop by at lunch.
Me: If you want, you can stop pretending you're a hard-ass.
A pause.
Then:
Cassian: You're the hard-ass in this relationship.
I smile so hard my face hurts.
A few minutes later, Zadok calls.
Apparently there's an urgent contract issue.
And an equally urgent visitor from the Historical Society.
Which is how I find myself sitting across from Miss Nettles.
She hands me a folder.
Inside is a photograph of Whitmore House before it became apartments.
Rose gardens.
White fence.
The bay in the background.
And standing in front of it:
Theodore Whitmore.
His name is neatly typed beneath the image.
Miss Nettles taps the photo.
"He was well-liked. Generous. Funded half the town's early projects."
"Never married."
"Never married," she agrees.
Then she slides another document toward me.
An old newspaper clipping.
Most of it is missing.
Only the headline remains.
ENGAGEMENT ANNOUNCED
And beneath it:
E. S. to wed local patron Whitmore...
The rest is torn away.
"No marriage record exists," Miss Nettles says.
"No death record either."
I stare at the clipping.
At the missing woman.
At the gap in the story.
"Who was she?"
Miss Nettles shrugs.
"That's the mystery."
By the time she leaves, I can't stop thinking about it.
Not the haunting.
Not the flowers.
The woman–Emily St. James.
Because that's who E. S. turns out to be.
The records take most of the afternoon to untangle.
Whitmore's name appears everywhere. Boarding records. Tax rolls. Property documents. Then, finally: Emily St. James.
One census entry. One mention. Then nothing. No marriage. No future records. No explanation.
Just absence.
The kind that lingers. The kind that leaves a mark.
For the first time, I stop thinking about Theodore as a ghost.
I start thinking about him as a person. A lonely one.
My phone buzzes.
Cassian: On my way.
Cassian: Should I bring actual food or are you planning to eat crackers for dinner again?
Me: The crackers are artisanal.
Me: Also yes. Bring food.
And maybe wine.
Three dots appear immediately.
Cassian: You're perfect.
I stare at the message longer than I should.
Then blush like an idiot.
An hour later, he arrives with soup and wine.
He takes one look at the photographs scattered across my table and knows exactly what I've been doing.
I explain everything.
Emily. The engagement. The disappearance. The missing records.
When I finish, Cassian sits quietly for a moment.
"You think Theodore lost her."
I nod. "Maybe."
His gaze settles on the old photograph. "That would explain a lot."
It would. Maybe not everything. But enough.
Later, after dinner, we lock away the records and put the flowers back on the windowsill.
Then we settle onto the couch.
No investigation. No theories. No mystery boards.
Just us.
At some point, my head ends up on his shoulder.
His arm settles around me. Easy and natural.
Like it's always belonged there.
The apartment is quiet. The town is quiet. Even Gomez is asleep.
At three in the morning, I wake to a faint blue glow.
Gomez is sitting on the windowsill. Alert. But not alarmed.
On the nightstand sits a new photograph.
Old. Sepia toned. A woman standing in the original garden. Her face hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat.
I turn it over. Whitmore House Summer 1891
That's all. No warning. No message. Just a memory.
Carefully, I set the photograph beside the flowers.
Then I slide back beneath the blankets.
Cassian shifts in his sleep.
His arm settles heavily around my waist. Warm and solid.
The photograph rests on the nightstand. The flowers glow softly in the moonlight.
Tomorrow, I'll keep digging.
Tomorrow, I'll figure out who Theodore Whitmore really was.
But tonight?
The ghost can wait until morning.