Page 12 of Paws & Order

But when I finally fall asleep, I dream of a hand reaching through the bars of my fire escape, palm full of black tulips and teeth made of silver.

I wake at three in the morning to silence and the faint sweetness of the bouquets drifting in from the kitchen.

I lie there in the dark and listen to nothing for a long time.

Then I pick up my phone, find Cassian's name, and put it back down.

I do this twice more before I sleep again.

By morning, I've convinced myself I'm fine.

The flowers are still there when I leave for work.

And so is a third coin lying a few feet from my door.

I know I didn't leave the door unlocked.

CHAPTER 4

LIZA

Thursday arrives with its usual bribe: a staff meeting at 8:00 a.m. sharp and a bonus croissant for anyone who shows up on time and fully dressed.

I'm pretty sure this motivational system was designed solely to keep me from dying of shame on the days I oversleep, and today I'm only two minutes late and in actual clothes.

Maybe this is progress.

It's a slow crawl up the stairs to my office.

My eyes feel as if they've been individually sandblasted by cat tongues, and my brain is the sort of sleep-deprived where every sound arrives on a five-second delay.

Today, my doorstep is home to two bouquets, white and black, and three coins lined up like the world's smuggest chess pieces.

Just like before, there is no note.

I don't even unlock my office door right away.

Instead, I hover in the hallway, sipping from a coffee cup so enormous it borders on medical equipment.

Marlena from Records, a retired witch and our office den mother, has her Sudoku open on her knee, pencil hovering, eyes cutting sideways at the new intern every few seconds.

Old Roy, the custodian, is crouched by the radiator with a screwdriver that glows faintly green.

He is, as always, a snake shifter doing his best.

Outside, a coastal fog has swallowed the bay, and the corridors of City Hall are pale with it.

For a minute, it's easy to pretend everything's fine: just another sleepy morning, just another impossible Monday disguised in Thursday's clothing.

But then I open the door.

On my desk sits an envelope—bright white, neat as a chalk outline.

No address. No handwriting.

Just my name in block-printed Helvetica, centered on the front like a declaration.

I stand there holding my coffee.