CASSIAN
The house was completely quiet when I pushed the front door open. It was that same deep stillness that usually meant he was still tucked under the blankets in the bedroom, but the moment the soles of my boots hit the tile, the air felt wrong.
It wasn't the quiet of a sleeping house; it was the quiet of a room where someone was holding their breath.
I walked into the living room. Julian wasn't in bed. He was sitting on the edge of the old linen couch, his back hunched over and slightly turned toward the door.
The wooden coffee table was right in front of him, and on the dark oak surface, there was a small square of glass he'd taken from a picture frame.
There was white powder on the glass.
My brain didn't want to see it at first. It tried to tell me it was salt, or flour from the kitchen, or dust from the old shutters, but my eyes had already done the math before I could even stop walking.
