8. Chapter 8
Wren
The evening air feels too heavy against my skin as I step out of Grounded. My shift ended twenty minutes ago, but Jace insisted on staying until I was ready to leave. He's been hovering since my panic attack, watching me with those intense eyes that seem to see straight through me.
"I can walk you home," he offers again, his voice low and careful. "It's getting dark."
I shake my head firmly and sign, "I'm fine. Need to clear my head anyway."
He hesitates, clearly reluctant to leave me alone. There's something protective in his stance that I'm not used to seeing directed at me. It's... disconcerting. And oddly comforting.
"Are you sure?" he asks.
I nod, forcing a smile I don't feel. His concern is touching, but right now I need space more than I need protection. Space to process. To breathe. To figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do now that my brother's face is plastered across every news outlet again.
After a moment, Jace relents. "Text when you get home safe?"
The request surprises me. We exchanged numbers earlier—his idea, in case I needed anything—but I didn't expect him to actually use it. I nod again, and he finally turns to leave, throwing one last concerned glance over his shoulder before disappearing around the corner.
I exhale slowly, my shoulders dropping from their tense position near my ears. The fresh air helps clear the fog from my mind, but the knot in my stomach remains tight and insistent.
My brother has been caught. Lucien—the monster who stole my voice, who tore my family apart, who turned our name into a curse—is finally in custody.
One would think I'd feel relief. Closure. Some fragment of peace knowing he can't hurt anyone else.
Instead, all I feel is dread.
Because if he's been arrested hundreds of miles from here, then he can't be the one who's been stalking me. Can't be the one who left that pendant. Can't be the one who took photos through my window.
Which means there's someone else. Someone who knows who I am. Someone who found me despite everything I did to disappear.
I walk faster, my eyes scanning every shadow, every passing face. The city feels different tonight—the spaces between streetlights darker, the gaps between buildings deeper. Every footstep behind me makes my heart stutter, every casual glance from a stranger feels loaded with hidden meaning.
I reach a crosswalk and stop, waiting for the light to change. Cars rush past in the gathering dusk, headlights painting streaks of gold against the darkening sky. People cluster around me—office workers heading home, couples meeting for dinner, normal people living normal lives.
My gaze drifts across the crowd, the automatic scan I always do. Old habits. Survival instincts.
That's when I see it—a flash of movement that makes my head snap back.
Someone in the crowd across the street has just run their fingers through their hair in a distinctive gesture.
A deliberate sweep from temple to crown, then a slight twist of the wrist. It's so familiar it makes my chest ache, though I can't place why.
I strain to see clearer, searching the faces across the intersection. A businessman on his phone. A woman with shopping bags. A group of college students laughing. None of them seem to be looking my way. None of them trigger recognition.
The light changes. People move forward. I stand frozen, still searching, that gesture replaying in my mind like a skipping record. Where have I seen it before? Why does it pull at something deep in my memory?
"Are you crossing or what?" someone mutters behind me, annoyed.
I step forward automatically, still scanning the crowd as I cross. But whoever made that gesture has blended back into the sea of faces. By the time I reach the other side, the moment has passed, leaving only a vague unease in its wake.
Coincidence. It has to be. Just my overwrought brain making connections that aren't there.
I shake it off and continue walking, picking up my pace as the streetlights flicker on. The sooner I get home, the sooner I can lock the door, pull the curtains, and pretend the outside world doesn't exist.
Taking the stairs two at a time, I fish my keys from my pocket as I go. The familiar weight of them in my palm is reassuring—solid, real, something I can control. I reach my door and slide the key into the lock, the mechanisms clicking open with a sound that usually means security.
Tonight, it sounds hollow.
I step inside, flipping on the light and immediately doing my usual scan—windows closed, curtains drawn, everything in its place. I exhale slowly, some of the tension easing from my shoulders.
And then I see them.
Flowers. On my kitchen counter.
A massive arrangement of black calla lilies and deep red roses, artfully arranged in a crystal vase I definitely don't own and looks like it cost a month's rent. They dominate the small space, impossibly dark and gleaming in the overhead light.
My blood turns to ice.
Someone has been in my apartment. Someone with a key, or the skills to pick a lock. Someone who knows my taste well enough to choose flowers that are both beautiful and deeply unsettling.
My breath is coming in short, sharp gasps that barely make sound. The flowers sit there like an accusation, like a promise, like a threat.
A small card is propped against the vase. From where I stand, I can’t make out what it says and I don’t want to.
My legs nearly give out. I grab my phone with trembling fingers, ready to contact... who? The police? Once again I wonder what I could even disclose? That someone left me flowers? That they used a name I legally abandoned?
Instead, I grab my backpack from where I dropped it and stuff in the first things I can reach—a change of clothes, my laptop, charger, the emergency cash I keep taped under my dresser drawer. I don't dare approach the flowers to look at the card.
Within minutes, I'm back out the door, locking it behind me even though I know it's pointless. Locks didn't keep them out before. They won't now.
I stand paralyzed in the hallway, my entire body vibrating with fear. I need to go somewhere—anywhere that isn't here. The studio is an option, but it feels too predictable. If they saw me preparing to stream then they might know about Behind the Lens too.
Maya. I need Maya.
I pull out my phone with trembling fingers and text her: Can I come over? Emergency. Please.
Her response is immediate: Of course. You ok? Address is 1422 Westlake, Apt 3B
I don't bother responding. I just run.
The bus ride to Maya's feels endless. Every passenger is a potential threat, every glance in my direction a possible recognition. By the time I reach her building, my hoodie is damp with sweat and my lungs burn from holding my breath too often.
Maya opens the door before I can even knock, her expression shifting from concern to alarm as she takes in my appearance.
"Holy shit, Wren. What happened?" She pulls me inside, locking the door behind us.
Her apartment is small but cozy—colorful tapestries on the walls, plants crowding every windowsill, the scent of incense lingering in the air. Under different circumstances, I'd appreciate how perfectly it fits her personality.
I drop my bag and sink onto her couch, my hands shaking too badly to sign properly. Maya sits beside me, waiting patiently while I try to collect myself.
Finally, I pull out my phone and type: Someone broke into my apartment.
Her eyes widen. "What? Did they take anything?"
I shake my head and type: They left something. Flowers. Black lilies. And they used my real name.
"Your real name? I thought Wren was your real name."
The moment stretches between us. I've never told Maya about my past—about who I really am. She's the closest thing I have to a friend, and I've kept her at arm's length to protect us both.
But now? With flowers in my apartment and a heart pendant in my bag? With my brother's capture splashed across every news outlet? The walls I've built are crumbling, and I'm too exhausted to keep propping them up.
I’ve always been afraid to let people get too close. Not just because I’m scared for them—though God knows I am—but because I’m scared for me . Because the second you let someone in, you start needing them. You start imagining a future where they stay.
And in my life, staying has never been an option.
I’ve spent so long building walls high enough to keep everyone out and low enough that I could still climb over them when it was time to run.
But sitting here—shaking, hollowed out, so fucking tired—I don’t want to run again. I don’t want to carry it all alone anymore.
So I break my rule.
I take a deep breath and type: My name is Lilliana Cain. Lucien Cain is my brother.
Maya stares at me, confusion giving way to shock as recognition dawns. "The serial killer? The one they just arrested?"
I nod, tears burning behind my eyes.
"Holy shit," she whispers. "Holy shit , Wren."
For a terrible moment, I think she's going to ask me to leave. Instead, she wraps her arms around me, pulling me into a fierce hug.
"I'm so sorry," she murmurs against my hair. "That must be... I can't even imagine."
Something breaks inside me then—some final wall I've been desperately maintaining. I clutch at her shirt and let the tears come, silent sobs shaking my body as she holds me.
When I finally pull back, my face is wet and my throat aches with the phantom pain of screams I can't release. Maya hands me a tissue, her eyes full of questions but patient enough not to ask them all at once.
I wipe my face and reach for my phone again, but Maya stops me.
"Let's use my laptop," she suggests. "Easier to type."
She brings her computer and sits cross-legged on the couch, angling the screen so we can both see it. I place my hands on the keyboard and take a deep breath.
I need to tell you everything , I type. But it's a lot. And once you know, you can't unknow it.
"I'm not going anywhere," she says firmly. "Whatever it is, we'll figure it out."
So I tell her. Everything.
The dam breaks, and everything spills out—not just today's terror but all of the secrets I've kept locked away. My hands fly across the keyboard as I bare myself to her in the hopes she will still want to be my friend once it’s all out.
I tell her all about my connection to the monster whose capture was just splashed across every news channel in the country.
I tell her about my voice—about waking in the hospital after almost dying and how it disappeared after that night, how the doctors found no physical reason for my silence, how the trauma locked my words away where even I can't find them.
I tell her about running, changing my name, dyeing my hair, erasing every trace of the girl I used to be.
And then I tell her about Vanta. About the masked cam girl who performs in silence for strangers online.
About how those tips pay my rent and buy my groceries when barista wages barely cover utilities.
About how even there, in that carefully constructed fantasy, someone has found me.
How someone has been stalking me, sending messages, leaving gifts and now violated my home.
Through it all, Maya sits perfectly still, her expression shifting from shock to horror to something that looks dangerously close to pity.
When I finally stop, pushing the computer back toward her, my hands aching and my shoulders slumped with exhaustion. The silence between us feels vast and unbridgeable.
"Say something," I sign, the movement small and uncertain.
Maya's eyes are soft, full of a kindness I'm not sure I deserve. "First of all, I'm not going anywhere," she says firmly. "And second, holy shit, Wren. That's... a lot."
I almost laugh at the understatement. My hands shape the words: "I understand if it's too much."
"Stop," she says, grabbing my hands. "Don't you dare push me away now. Not after all that."
Relief floods through me so intensely I nearly collapse. She pulls me into another hug, and this time I let myself sink into it completely, my body going limp against hers.
"You can stay here as long as you need," she murmurs. "We'll figure this out together."
But even as I nod against her shoulder, a cold realization is forming in my gut. By coming here, I've done exactly what I swore I'd never do—I've put someone I care about in danger.