Using Ren's phone to log into my Messenger account, I shot Leigh a text. Then a call.
Then another call.
I must admit I was a little... wounded that my friend didn't leap at the chance to interact with her presumed-dead best-pal after weeks of heart-staggering silence. I understood being busy, but seriously? That girl was always on her phone, posting one thing or the other. What were the odds that the one time I tried to get into contact with her, she was indisposed?
Whatever. Traitor.
Annoyed, I called up Nicole, who soothed my bruised ego by picking up before the first ring even finished sounding.
"Lily?" she asked, slightly breathless.
"Leigh better be in a coma or on a romantic date with an A-list celebrity," I said by way of greeting.
"You're alive!"
"I'm also serious. How rude. If I was on the verge of death, she'd feel sooooooo guilty later at having dodged my calls."
"She... does have a good excuse," Nicole said carefully. "Have you checked the local news?"
"Yeah, yeah, they all think I'm dead. I know," I replied, dismissive. "Back to why Leigh is leaving me to die in a ditch somewhere, does this excuse involve a romantic getaway with an unexpectedly divorced Hugh Jackman? A Chris Evans, mayhaps? Heck, I'll even settle for a Florence Pugh but anyone below that strict standard and we'll have problems."
"I'm being serious," she scolded. "She has her own stuff going on right now, and no, she isn't dating anyone, let alone a celebrity."
I frowned. Now she had me concerned. "Is everything alright?"
"She's fine!" Nicole was quick to assure. "More than fine, especially now that you're back, but I'll let her tell you herself when you see her. Are you alright, though?"
I hummed the affirmative. I'd said I was fine to so many people in such a short time it was beginning to sound false — disingenuous — and made me question how true the statement even was.
"I know this is short notice," I began, "but do you mind if I stay over tonight? I'm kinda trying to prove a point to my dad, so I can't come home, and if I stay in the hospital he's just going to come track me down."
Her voice rose up an octave. "You're in the hospital? So you're not alright at all!"
"My injuries are only mildly fatal. So is that a yes?"
"I mean, yeah, you can go to my house and I'm sure my parents wouldn't kick you out, but I'm not... I'm not there," she explained haltingly. "I'm at Orientation for my uni. I signed up for this specific date before you disappeared and when I called they said I couldn't reschedule, that all the other days were already booked—"
"You really don't need to explain," I cut her off, her obvious guilt making me feel guilty by proxy. "I get it. I never expected you to put your life on hold for almost a whole month. You couldn't have known this would happen and, besides, I'm fine." There was that cursed word again... "I'm fine, so it doesn't matter. I'll figure something else out for tonight, don't worry. Going to your house and spending the evening with just your folks sounds unbearably awkward, if I'm being honest."
She laughed. "Sorry. We'll hang out when I get back in a few days."
Before I could respond, Ren cleared his throat and looked pointedly down at his wristwatch, tapping it in the universal sign to hurry up.
Fine, fine. I rolled my eyes. Message received.
"I have to let you go, but when I get my phone back I'll fill you in... or you can just watch the press conference tomorrow and I'm sure that will fill in a few blanks."
"Oh, okay." She sounded disappointed. "Talk to you later. Don't get kidnapped again before I get back, okay?"
"I'll try my best," I agreed, grinning. "See you."
"Bye."
The line disconnected, and, after logging out of my Messenger account, because the last thing I wanted was to give Ren access to my social media, I handed him back his phone.
"Well," I said into the silence, "that sucks. Onto Plan C."
"There's a Plan C?" Tempest asked, dubious. He hadn't so much as gotten up from his chair since Ren arrived, absently shooting a folded up piece of notepad paper around the room in the form of a paper airplane using his wind to keep it in flight.
Ren's expression held a remarkable lack of faith in my unvoiced third and final plan. "I'm almost afraid to ask."
"Then don't," I said.
"Unfortunately, I must," he admitted without enthusiasm. "To make sure it doesn't compromise our attempts at keeping your return quiet until tomorrow. I'm sure the Guild leaders won't like that you told your friend you're back already, either." He sighed. "Another headache. You cause quite a few of those."
I flattened a hand over my heart. "I'm honored."
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Tempest offered to fly me to my destination. Although the offer was a generous one, I would rather have chopped my own arm off with a rusty hack saw than be flown ever again, and I told him as much. My initial plan included taking public transit, but Ren just about fainted at the suggestion and promptly drove me himself just to wipe his hands of me for the day without a public media spectacle.
He rolled down the passenger window as I shut the door to give me his parting words. "Some unfortunate soul — probably me — will pick you up from here tomorrow. I expect you to be ready to leave by ten on the dot, and for the love of God do not leave the apartment for any reason or make a nuisance of yourself in any way that will come back to haunt me, got it?"
I spun on my heel to face him even as I was still walking away in order to give him a mock salute. "Roger that, Batman."
His soul-weary sigh chased me the rest of the way to fire escape connecting to my bedroom window. It took a bit of maneuvering to reach the ladder, but I'd done it before and knew I could do it again. Truthfully, after I turned eighteen and graduated, I thought the days of sneaking into my own room were behind me.
I did swear I'd stay away for the night to prove a point, but, given my lack of better options, I reasoned I could still prove my point so long as my dad didn't know I was home, and if he didn't know I was a shout away, then he couldn't try to talk me out of interning at the Guild. Crisis averted.
After shimmying open my window, technically locked, but not really if you knew where to apply just the right amount of pressure, I stepped into my bedroom, both comforted and disturbed by how nothing had changed since my departure. It felt like walking into an undisturbed tomb.
I found that I hated it.
I felt changed on the inside, so the lack of reflection to my personal space jarred my senses. It made me wonder how long they would have kept things this way had I never come home. Would they wait until the law declared me legally dead, or merely until they lost hope? How long would that take, days more, or years? Would they have transformed my room into a home gym, given it to the dog, or would they pack up and move to a smaller apartment where an extra room wouldn't be necessary anymore?
Only my bed appeared altered. Normally I would never notice such a mundane detail, except my dad had insisted I make my bed before leaving for graduation, something I was generally loathe to do, but grudgingly accomplished only to get him off my back. I made the damn thing to his pristine specifications that would have made hotel maids weep with envy. The annoying memory of pulling out every crease from that accursed comforter contrasted with the sight in front of me, telling me someone came in while I was away, indenting the fabric where they sat.
Now I sat in that same spot, seeing the same things they saw, nothing special, but mine all the same.
Sighing, I laid back over the mattress, stretching, searching out my pillow in the darkened room using only my hands. I twisted the rest of my body around it, curling my arms underneath, when my fingers struck something cold —metal.
I pulled the item out for inspection and my brain promptly stopped working right, not processing what clearly was right in front of me, resting on my palm: a Swiss Army knife engraved with the initials CVB. Running my thumb over the marks, I swallowed back a wave of emotion.
CVB. Charlie Veran Burdett.
My brother's old knife, stolen from his room by me following his death, and subsequently stolen from me by my own idiocy in using it to stab Shade so many months ago. I thought it lost forever.
I sprung to my feet, rushing to check my window, only to remember it had still been locked when I broke inside. However the knife got there, no one had gained access through traditional means. I stumbled away again, feeling out of the moment, out of my own head, as though I was gliding, slipping through something thicker than air, because the presence of the knife under my pillow meant one thing: Shade had purposefully kept it from our first encounter.
Shade had been in my room.
He knew exactly where I lived, down to where I laid my head to sleep at night.
Why return it at all, if not to mess with my head?