The lock to Sarafina's apartment clicked into place with a hollow, metallic finality. She leaned her back against the heavy oak door, her lungs burning as if she had been running through thick fog. The adrenaline from the Foundry was beginning to ebb, leaving behind a cold, jagged exhaustion that made her bones feel like lead.
She didn't reach for the light switch. She didn't have to.
The air inside her home had been rewritten. The familiar, sterile scent of her lavender laundry detergent and the lingering tang of city rain had been completely evicted. In their place sat a heavy, sophisticated atmosphere of expensive sandalwood, aged bourbon, and a hint of something metallic, like the edge of a sharpened blade. It was the scent of Joseph Mcwell. It was a sensory invasion that bypassed the locks and the security cameras she had so meticulously installed.
He had not broken in. A break in implied a struggle, a forced entry, a violation of wood and metal. This was something far more terrifying. This was a haunting. Joseph had simply occupied the space, settling into the corners of her life as if he had always owned the deed to her sanctuary.
Sarafina moved through the darkened living room, her hand hovering instinctively near the lace holster on her thigh. The silence was weighted, thick with the phantom pressure of his presence. She saw the subtle changes. A book moved three inches to the left on the coffee table. A glass of water, condensation still clinging to the rim, sitting on the counter. He had been here minutes ago, perhaps even seconds. He was showing her that the walls she built to keep the world out were nothing more than tissue paper to a man of his reach.
She walked toward the bathroom, the master of her own house feeling like an intruder in her own skin. When she pushed the door open, the scent of him intensified, a warm and suffocating cloud that made her lightheaded.
The mirror was the only thing illuminated, caught in the pale, sickly glow of the streetlights filtering through the frosted window. Pinned directly to the center of the glass was a sheet of heavy, cream cardstock. It was held in place by a vintage fountain pen, its nib buried deep into the wooden frame of the medicine cabinet. The ink on the paper was still wet, reflecting the light like a fresh wound.
Sarafina stepped closer, her breath hitching in her throat. She recognized the handwriting instantly. It was sharp, elegant, and utterly devoid of mercy.
Stop looking for the hero in your father, Little Bird. You won't like what you find when you reach the bottom of his grave.
The words seemed to vibrate on the page. Sarafina reached out, her fingers trembling as she touched the edge of the cardstock. The paper was cool and expensive, a tactile reminder of the man who was currently dismantling her reality piece by piece.
She sank onto the edge of the porcelain tub, the letter clutched in her hand. The doubt, which had been a small, flickering flame in the back of her mind, suddenly roared into a conflagration. Why was Joseph doing this? If he wanted her dead, he could have finished her in the theater or the alley. If he wanted her silent, he could have disappeared her months ago.
Instead, he was acting as a dark architect, systematically demolishing every pillar of her life. He had handed her Miller's head on a silver platter. He had shown her the corruption in the Foundry. And now, he was taking a sledgehammer to the memory of Stephen Cole.
A terrifying thought took root in her mind, cold and parasitic. Joseph wasn't just helping her find the truth. He was clearing the wreckage of her identity so that he would be the only thing left standing. He was destroying her past to ensure he was her only future. He was a predator who didn't just want the meat; he wanted the soul to be entirely dependent on the hand that fed it.
Was her father truly a partner to the monster, or was Joseph merely weaving a web of lies to isolate her? She thought of the floorboard, the burner phone, and the way the police had scrubbed the crime scene. The evidence pointed to betrayal, but the source was a man whose very existence was built on deception.
She looked at the fountain pen still embedded in the wood. It was a beautiful, lethal instrument of gold and black lacquer. She reached out and yanked it free, the wood splintering with a sharp protest. She felt a sudden, vicious urge to strike back, to write a letter that would draw blood from a man who seemed made of stone.
She walked back into the kitchen and grabbed a piece of her own stationery. Her hand was steady now, fueled by a mixture of grief and a burgeoning, dark attraction to the danger Joseph represented. She wrote three words, the ink thick and aggressive.
I am digging.
She left the note on the kitchen island, right next to the glass of water he had left behind. She knew he was watching. She knew the cameras in the hallway or the building across the street were transmitting her every move to a man sitting in a leather chair, sipping bourbon and waiting for her to break.
She went to her bedroom and lay down on top of the covers, her coat still on, her gun still strapped to her leg. She didn't close her eyes. She stared at the ceiling, listening to the house settle, imagining the scent of sandalwood was a pair of hands around her throat.
Hours passed in a blurred state of hyper vigilance. As the first gray light of dawn began to bleed through the curtains, her phone chirped on the nightstand. It wasn't a text. It was a notification from her home security app.
Motion detected: Living Room.
Sarafina bolted upright, her heart hammering against her ribs. She grabbed her weapon and crept toward the door, her bare feet silent on the hardwood. She rounded the corner into the living room, her gun raised, her finger hovering over the trigger.
The room was empty. The morning light revealed a space that was perfectly, unnervingly still.
She walked toward the kitchen island. Her note was gone. In its place sat a single, white lily, its petals pristine and smelling of funerals.
Next to the flower lay her father's old police badge. It had been polished until it shone like a mirror, but the silver was marred by a deep, jagged scratch that ran directly through the center of the star.
Below the badge, written directly onto the marble of her counter in the same dark, fountain pen ink, was a final instruction.
The bottom of the grave is deeper than you think, Sarafina. Meet me at the mausoleum. Bring a shovel.
Sarafina stared at the badge, the symbol of the law her father had supposedly died for. She realized then that Joseph wasn't just inviting her to a grave. He was inviting her to the end of the world she knew, and she was already halfway through the door.