Chapter 11
LIZA
Gomez reacts to the ghost pastry the way he reacts to most things that aren’t tuna—with a single suspicious sniff and then profound indifference.
He circles the danish twice, bats it once with a paw, and walks away.
I brace for poltergeist shenanigans anyway, but nothing happens except Gomez settling onto the windowsill and beginning to wash his face with the air of someone who has seen stranger things and found them equally beneath him.
Cassian looks relieved and faintly betrayed all at once, as if hungry ghosts had been a legitimate contender but are now demoted to minor inconvenience.
“Maybe we wait on the tulip,” Cassian says, studying the blue petals through the evidence bag. “Some of the older blooms react to sunlight.”
I watch him study it with a forensic kind of awe, eyebrows knit, thumb brushing at a smudge on the plastic.
The tenderness in it—the way he’s careful not to break even a strange little thing meant for dying—makes something small and reckless root in my chest.
He glances up.
Our eyes meet.
And just for a second, we’re not the police chief and the mayoral assistant.
Not haunted and professional.
We’re two people in a kitchen at an awkward hour, surrounded by ghosts and sugar.
I’m the first to look away.
That’s usually how this goes.
Morning barely counts as morning when you spend it rereading the same three emails and hoping for a supernatural update.
I busy myself with my inbox, but the Bay crew is running on yesterday’s outrage, and the only messages are from vendors confirming tablecloth colors for a spring fair I’m too frazzled to think about.
Cassian sits at the kitchen table, phone on silent, reading the same old incident reports and not pretending otherwise.
The lines at the corners of his mouth say he’s worrying at the problem like a puzzle box, refusing to accept defeat just because the last piece is missing.
In the absence of new ghost activity, I clean.
Not out of panic or maternal instinct.
Because motion is my only shot at feeling in control.
Cassian lets it ride, only intervening when I start to alphabetize the contents of the refrigerator door.
“You’re spiraling,” he says, voice low but not unkind.
I wipe a streak of lemon oil across the counter.
“I could be preparing. Isn’t that what you would do on your own turf? Build a nest, lay in supplies, check the exits?”
He gives me a look that could pierce granite.
“Are you expecting a siege?”
I want to say no, but the truth hitches higher in my throat.
“I keep thinking… if the gifts are stepping up, what’s next?”
I wave a hand at the tulip, the note, and the neat array of artifacts on the table: the hairpin, the coin, the copper spiral, the pastry neither of us bought.
“It’s like he wants to be noticed. Or remembered. Maybe both.”
“He?”
Cassian’s voice catches on the word with a subtle, dangerous weight.
I pretend not to notice.
“Theodore. I mean, that’s got to be him, right? Everything points to it. All these gifts, the blue, the handwriting, the—”
I stop before I say longing, which is embarrassing even by my standards.
Cassian leans back, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
“You’re less scared now.”
“I’m not sure it was ever scary in the way we thought.”
It comes out softer than I intend.
“The worst thing about having a ghost is not being able to tell if he’s lonely or just… stuck.”
Cassian’s expression shifts.
Not much.
Just enough.
“Most hauntings aren’t malicious,” he says. “They just want to be seen. Or heard.”
I sip my coffee, stalling for time.
“Does that ever work? Seeing them, I mean.”
His mouth does this thing—a slow, reluctant curve, like he’s fighting with himself about whether he’s allowed to smile.
“Sometimes. Sometimes all they want is to know they mattered.”
The quiet between us turns heavy, but not uncomfortable.
I’m so used to filling space—with chatter, with movement, with puzzles to solve—that I forget silence can be its own kind of statement.
Gomez breaks it first.
He drops from the windowsill and plants himself in the middle of the living room rug, tail wrapped around his paws, chittering at the empty air near the bookshelf.
It’s the sound he usually reserves for birds on the fire escape—that focused, mechanical clicking that means something has his complete attention, even if that something is invisible.
Cassian notices first.
“He’s talking to someone.”
“Yeah,” I say, then call out, “What’re you up to, G?”
Gomez sprawls on the rug, paws draped around his stuffed mouse, eyes gleaming.
I smile despite myself.
“Maybe he’s showing Teddy his toys.”
Cassian arches an eyebrow.
“Teddy?”
I shrug.
“It’s short for Theodore.”
His mouth twitches.
“You’ve named the ghost now?”
“I didn’t name him. His parents did.”
“We don’t know that Theodore is the ghost.”
“No, but if he is, Teddy suits him.”
Cassian’s expression says he’d like to argue, but doesn’t have enough evidence to win.
Gomez pads over to the blue tulip on the countertop, nose brushing the edge of the evidence bag.
A low purr rumbles in his throat.
Cassian’s shoulders ease just a little.
The afternoon settles in with zero fanfare.
No phones ring.
The mayor doesn’t summon me for emergency cupcake recon.
The mail lands in the slot without incident.
Normally, I’d text a friend, take Gomez for a loop around the park, or invent a bureaucratic crisis just to feel busy.
Today the only emergency is a dwindling tea stash and the prickly sense of being watched—not by a person, exactly, but by decades of whispered gossip.
At 3:12 p.m., I glance up from my laptop.
Cassian is still at the kitchen table, tracing old Sanborn fire-insurance maps with one finger.
Gomez snoozes on the couch, belly up, tail curled over his hind legs.
“You’re not heading back to the station?” I ask.
He shrugs without looking up.
“I’m on leave.”
“Paid?”
A rueful smile touches his mouth.
“Zadok won’t let me back until I clear this case. He wants his assistant back and I guess he believes this will motivate me.”
“Well, if you get restless, I have a century’s worth of building permits to digitize.”
He grunts.
Which is to say, he tilts his head like he’d rather wrestle a ghoul than tackle municipal paperwork.
But he stays.
As dusk falls and the lamps click on, he brews another pot of coffee and remains by my side.
Later, the hairs on my arms rise again.
Not from fear.
Because Cassian has settled beside me on the sofa, notebook open, pen moving across the page in tight, clipped loops.
Gomez is back in his window perch, tail twitching at absolutely nothing.
I pretend to read.
My book hasn’t moved past the same paragraph in twenty minutes.
“You ever wonder what people say about us?” I ask quietly.
Cassian pauses.
“About who?”
I roll my eyes.
“You and me.”
Understanding flashes across his face.
“Oh.”
“Exactly.”
A smile tugs at his mouth.
“People in this town need hobbies.”
“They have hobbies.”
“They need better ones.”
I laugh.
The sound lingers between us.
Then fades.
Neither of us looks away.
The room suddenly feels smaller.
Warmer.
Dangerously so.
“I think Ravena has us engaged by now.”
Cassian groans.
“That’s an improvement.”
“Over what?”
“Last month she was convinced we were secretly married.”
A surprised laugh escapes me.
His eyes soften.
And something shifts.
Not dramatically.
Not all at once.
Just enough.
Enough that my pulse stumbles.
Enough that I become painfully aware of how close we’re sitting.
Enough that I stop hearing anything except my own heartbeat.
Cassian’s gaze drops briefly to my mouth.
Then returns to my eyes.
The breath leaves my lungs.
Slowly.
“I think Gomez believes you belong here.”
The words slip out before I can stop them.
Cassian goes very still.
“He follows you everywhere,” I add.
A corner of his mouth lifts.
“He has good instincts.”
I smile.
Then the smile fades because neither of us is joking anymore.
“For a long time,” Cassian says quietly, “I kept my distance.”
My chest tightens.
“Why?”
His eyes hold mine.
“Because I knew if something happened to you, I wouldn’t handle it well.”
The room goes silent.
Completely silent.
My heart pounds.
“You’re not very good at distance.”
A low laugh escapes him.
“No.”
His gaze drops briefly.
Then returns to mine.
“Turns out I’m terrible at it.”
I shift closer.
Not much.
Just enough that our knees touch.
Neither of us pulls away.
Cassian’s voice roughens.
“Is this okay?”
I don’t even have to think about it.
“Yeah.”
His hand lifts.
Careful.
Slow.
Like he’s giving me every opportunity to stop him.
I don’t.
Not even a little.
For one suspended second, neither of us moves.
Then he kisses me.
It’s not dramatic.
There’s no lightning.
No fireworks.
No sudden orchestral soundtrack.
Just warmth.
And relief.
Like finally setting down something I’ve been carrying for far too long.
His hand settles against my jaw.
My fingers catch in the front of his shirt.
The kiss deepens.
Slow.
Sweet.
Long overdue.
When we finally pull apart, I blink at him.
“Oh.”
One corner of his mouth lifts.
“Yeah.”
I laugh.
A little breathlessly.
“That was overdue.”
“Extremely.”
For the first time in days, everything feels simple.
Then Gomez launches himself onto the couch between us.
I yelp.
Cassian actually laughs.
The cat wedges himself directly into the middle of the sofa and begins kneading my leg with complete confidence.
“Traitor,” Cassian mutters.
I grin.
“He’s protecting my virtue.”
“Little late for that.”
Heat floods my cheeks.
Before I can think of a comeback, something clicks softly in the kitchen.
Both of us freeze.
The apartment falls silent.
I look toward the counter.
Cassian follows my gaze.
Nothing moves.
Nothing appears.
But the cabinet door that’s been sticking for six months swings smoothly open.
Then smoothly closed.
We stare.
“Did you fix that?” I ask.
Cassian shakes his head.
“No.”
A strange warmth settles over me.
Not fear.
Not concern.
Just the distinct feeling that somewhere, somehow, someone is feeling very pleased with themselves.
Gomez glances toward the kitchen.
Then immediately falls asleep.
I rest my head against Cassian’s shoulder.
His arm settles around me without hesitation.
The mystery is still there.
The flowers.
The gifts.
The impossible Theodore Whitmore.
But for tonight, none of it feels quite so frightening.
For tonight, I’m exactly where I want to be.