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Charley ran.
When the sun rose over North Gate Terrace, there was no scorch mark. No collapsed wall. Just his living room, undisturbed, and a single drop of black oil on his coffee table.
A soft thump came from the living room. Then another. Rhythmic. Like someone dropping a heavy suitcase on carpet.
“Jerry was an artist of appetite,” she continued, rising. She wore no shoes. Her feet left wet prints on the marble. “I am an artist of consequence . You will not die tonight, Charles. You will watch. For one year, you will watch everyone you save fall, one by one. And on the last night, you will thank me for it.”
“My homework,” Charley said. “Jerry’s ashes spelled ‘Soon.’ But you missed the second word, written under the rug. It was ‘Sunlight.’”
Beside him, Amy’s side of the bed was cold. She’d moved back to her parents’ house last week. “You’re not you anymore, Charley,” she’d said. “You’re just waiting for another monster.”
“You said if I ever needed you, text the bat emoji.”