Page 11 of Paws & Order

"Pranks aren't usually this... dedicated."

He nods once, slow.

"Let me know if you get anything else. Or if anything weird happens. Okay?"

I want to say, Weird is the baseline around here.

But I don't.

His tone is flat, but his jaw is tight in a way that says he's not joking.

"I will," I say quietly.

I try to keep my voice light, but the words stick to my tongue.

Cassian leaves without another word.

I stare at his retreating back, at the way sunlight paints lines along his shoulders, and I wish I could ask him to stay a minute longer.

But he's already gone.

I get through the rest of the day, but every time I look up from my computer, the flowers are still there.

By five o'clock, I've convinced myself they're harmless.

By seven, I'm convinced I'll get over it.

When I walk home at dusk, there's a second bouquet waiting at my door.

The flowers this time are white—star-shaped, in a blue-glass vase—with another coin at the bottom, this one a little larger.

I don't touch it.

I stand in the stairwell in the damp blue shadows and pretend to fumble for my keys, watching the street for any movement.

No one.

Nothing except the flickering lamplight on Main and the distant clang of the old iron drawbridge settling for the night.

I bring the bouquet inside.

It's almost a relief to have the ritual down now: rinse the stems, set the arrangement, dispose of the old water.

I take the coin and put it with the first, side by side on the kitchen table.

They clink quietly against the wood, as if happy to have found each other.

I try to read, but can't focus.

I try to watch TV, but every sound outside my window sounds like a footstep, or a car door, or a breath held in the dark.

I wonder if I should call Cassian.

I wonder if this is how it starts, the unraveling—one petal at a time, until you're left with nothing but the stem.

I'm not scared.

Not really.