Page 18 of Crown of the Mist (The Ether Chronicles #1)

The showing goes about as well as you'd expect when your mind is stuck on old journals and scattered daisies.

I smile through the walk-through on autopilot, pointing out crown molding and original hardwood floors while part of me catalogs everything Bree needs.

Clothes. Toiletries. Something to make that room feel less like a guest space and more like home.

My clients are a young couple, all starry-eyed about their first house. They don't notice how my chatter about the updated kitchen feels hollow, or how my hands shake slightly when I pull out my keys to lock up.

I sit in my car afterward, staring at the Target list on my phone.

The practical stuff is easy - basic clothes, shampoo, toothbrush.

But it's the other things that matter more.

The soft blanket I saw last week that made me think of her.

A reading lamp for late nights. Little pieces of comfort she'd never buy for herself.

Things she couldn’t afford to buy for herself.

The steering wheel creaks under my grip as I think about her apartment. About what waits there. Not just the sparse furniture and empty room, but the ghosts of everything she's been hiding.

My phone buzzes, Theo's name lighting up the screen. My stomach drops - he was supposed to be keeping an eye on her while the rest of us handled damage control.

"What's wrong?" I answer, already turning the key in the ignition.

"Nothing. Well, something." Theo's voice has that tone he gets when he's trying to puzzle something out. "She's in the attic."

I pause, hand hovering over the gear shift. "The attic? How did she even—"

"Found the door unlocked when I went to check on her. She's asleep up there, curled up right where we were planning to put her reading nook." He pauses. "The mist is...different up there. Thicker. Almost like it's trying to tell us something."

"Don't let her wake up alone," I say, pulling out of the parking lot. The universe has a sick sense of humor sometimes - her finding the one place in the house we've been secretly renovating for her. "I'll grab her stuff and be back as soon as I can."

"Jace." Theo's voice stops me before I can hang up. "Be careful at the apartment. Phil might—"

"I know." My free hand tightens on the wheel. "Trust me, part of me hopes he shows up."

"That's exactly why I'm telling you to be careful." Another pause. "The others are still out handling the legal stuff. You'll be alone."

"Good." I end the call before he can argue further, but his warning echoes as I drive. Be careful. Like any of us have been careful enough when it comes to Bree.

◆◆◆

The Target bags rustle in my trunk as I pull up to her building.

I've probably gone overboard - three throws because I couldn't decide which one she'd like best, a stack of paperbacks from her favorite authors, one of those LED candles that flickers like a real flame.

Simple things that might make her stay feel less temporary.

I really hope she likes that green blanket. The soft one that reminded me of her eyes when she actually lets herself smile.

The building looks different today, though not better. Paint peels from the concrete like old scabs, and the front steps are cracked, weeds pushing through like stubborn memories. A cat watches me from a broken windowsill, its yellow eyes following my movement with too much interest.

My key ring feels heavy as I sort through it, finding the spare she'd given us years ago "for emergencies." The one we should have used sooner. Should have walked right in and carried her out of here the first time Phil looked at her wrong.

Focus, Langston. Get her stuff. Get out. Try not to commit assault if her landlord shows up.

The lock sticks, just like she said it would. Three jiggles to the left, one sharp turn right. The door groans open like it's warning me about what's inside.

The apartment feels even smaller, emptier somehow. Dust motes dance in the thin sunlight streaming through the window, making the space look almost ethereal—but not in a good way. More like a ghost of what a home should be.

"Jesus, Bree," I mutter, taking in the water stains on the ceiling, the patches of peeling wallpaper. "Why didn't you tell us?"

But I know why. The same reason she never told us about her father. About Phil. About any of it.

I set the empty Target bags by the door and move deeper into the space, cataloging everything with the same attention I usually save for house listings.

The couch that's more springs than cushions.

The coffee table with cigarette burns that definitely weren't from her.

The kitchenette with—I swallow hard—one plate, one mug, like she couldn't even imagine having someone over to share a meal. I open a cabinet, make that two mugs. I can see why she’d never use that one.

I find an old journal peeking out from under the couch, I grab it, careful not to open it.

She'd write in this journal for hours when we were kids, hunched over the pages like they could protect her from whatever waited at home.

I'd try to make her laugh, tell increasingly ridiculous jokes just to see her smile. Sometimes it even worked.

The mist drifts at my feet, thinner here than at our house but still present.

Movement catches my eye—someone passing by the window. My hands clench automatically, but it's just the cat from earlier, prowling along the ledge. Still, the reminder that Phil could show up any minute gets me moving.

I start with the closet, pulling out the few pieces of clothing she owns. Each item feels like an accusation. You should have known. Should have seen. Her uniform from the nursing home. Two pairs of jeans worn soft at the knees. A few bras and panties that she’s probably had since high school.

"This is why you never let us visit," I say to the empty room, carefully folding each piece. "Why you always met us somewhere else."

A noise in the hallway makes me freeze, but it's just someone's TV through the thin walls.

I force myself to breathe, to focus on the task.

Get her stuff. Get out. Try not to think about how she lived here alone, scared, while we were all comfortable in our big house with our family dinners and movie nights.

The bathroom's worse. One threadbare towel. Travel-size toiletries like she couldn't afford the regular ones. A crack in the mirror that spiderwebs across the glass, distorting everything it reflects.

I'm taping up the second box on the bathroom floor when I hear it—heavy footsteps in the hall, the distinctive shuffle-stumble of someone who's been drinking. My whole body goes still, listening. The footsteps pause outside her door.

The mist swirls faster around my ankles, agitated. Warning.

Come on, Phil. Give me a reason.

A glint catches my eye as I'm checking the medicine cabinet—something metallic behind the mirror's cracked frame. At first I think it's just wiring, but then I notice the lens.

My stomach drops as I reach up, fingers finding the tiny camera expertly hidden in the frame. The kind you wouldn't notice unless you were looking for it. Unless you knew what to look for.

For a moment, I just stare at it, my whole body going cold then hot. The implications hit me like a physical blow—how long it's been here, what it's recorded, whether there are others. Phil's leering face flashes through my mind, his words about watching her.

Bile rises in my throat.

My hand shakes as I pull out my phone, forcing myself to document the camera's placement before carefully removing it. Evidence. We'll need evidence. But God, what I really want to do is find Phil and—

Those heavy footsteps pause outside the door again. A key scrapes in the lock.

The mist churns around my feet, dark and agitated. Waiting.

Every protective instinct I have screams for blood, but Theo's warning echoes in my head. Be careful. We need to handle this right. For Bree.

I slip the camera into my pocket, evidence of one more violation she never deserved. One more secret I'll have to tell the others, knowing it will break her heart when she finds out.

Focus, Langston. Get her stuff out first. Justice comes later.

I move silently toward the bathroom door, my reflection fractured in the broken mirror. The front door creaks open.

"Bree?" Phil's voice carries that fake concern that makes my skin crawl. "Just checking on my favorite tenant..."

My fists clench together as I hear him move through the apartment. I stay perfectly still, barely breathing, listening to his heavy footsteps draw closer to the bathroom.

The mist swirls around my feet, agitated and dark. Something that sounds like glass clinks in the main room—probably him helping himself to whatever he wants, like he has a right to be here. Like this is his space to invade.

"Breeee," he calls again, dragging out her name. "I didn’t see you come in, but I thought I heard... movement."

My fingers brush the camera in my pocket. Everything in me screams to confront him, to make him pay for every violation, every moment of fear he's caused her.

He's close now. I can smell the alcohol on him through the partially open door. One more step and—

His phone rings, the sound sharp and sudden in the quiet apartment. Phil curses, fumbling to answer it.

"Yeah?" Phil listens for a moment, then chuckles darkly. "Nah, she's not here Kevin. But one of those guys she hangs around with is... The pretty boy realtor...”

My jaw clenches. Her father. Of course he's still keeping tabs on her, still trying to control her life even from a distance.

“Yeah, exactly. Always trying to play hero." A pause. "Don't worry, everything's under control. She won't get far... I mean, I'll handle the lease termination properly."

The call ends. Phil's footsteps retreat, slow and deliberate, back toward the front door. That slip about not letting her leave sets off every alarm in my head. This isn't just about the apartment anymore.

The front door closes. Loudly. Too loudly.

He's letting me know he's still here. Waiting.

Phil stands just inside the doorway when I step out of the bathroom, his bulk taking up too much space in the tiny studio. Early afternoon light filters through the grimy window, casting strange shadows across the floor. The mist follows me, curling around my feet in agitated swirls.

My eyes catch on the cracked mirror he installed by the door. Another camera angle. Bastard really did think of everything.

"Doing a final inspection?" His voice drips with fake concern, masking something uglier. "Making sure our girl left everything in order?"

Our girl. The words make me want to punch something. Preferably his face.

"Actually," I keep my voice light, casual, like we're discussing the weather, "I'm here to help Bree move out. You know how it is—heavy lifting, paperwork, all that fun stuff."

"Without notice? That's not very professional." He shifts his weight, trying to look bigger, more intimidating in the cramped space. "There are proper procedures for these things."

I smile, the kind of smile that makes most people take a step back.

"Oh, I'm all about proper procedures. Like the housing authority's guidelines on tenant privacy.

Their rules about surveillance." I pull the camera from my pocket, holding it up.

"Pretty sure they'd be really interested in your. .. inspection methods."

The mask slips. Just for a second. But it's enough to see the rage underneath, the same cruel edge I sometimes caught in Bree's father's eyes.

"Careful, pretty boy." Phil's voice drops, turns ugly. "You don't want to make enemies here. Some things are bigger than you understand."

"See, that's where you're wrong." I slip the camera back into my pocket, my smile never wavering. "I understand perfectly. I understand that you and her father thought you could keep controlling her. Keep her scared and alone." I take a step closer. "But that ends today."

His hand twitches toward his pocket. Weapon? Phone? Doesn't matter. The mist surges around my feet, and for a moment, the temperature in the room seems to drop.

"You can't protect her forever," he says, something ugly twisting beneath the words. "She belongs—"

"She belongs wherever she chooses." I cut him off, done playing nice. "And she chooses to leave. So either step aside, or I'll help you move."

We stand there, locked in a moment that stretches like wire about to snap. Part of me hopes he'll try something. Gives me an excuse to—

"Everything okay in there?" A new voice calls from the hall. Theo. Because of course he didn't listen when I said I'd handle it.

Phil's face twists, calculations running behind his bloodshot eyes. After a long moment, he steps back, raising his hands in mock surrender.

Just trying to be helpful," he says with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Make sure everything's... proper.

"We've got it covered," Theo says coolly, appearing in the doorway. His usual calm looks forced, brittle around the edges.

Phil's gaze darts between us, measuring odds I'm guessing he doesn't like. Finally, he shrugs, trying to look casual and failing.

"Have it your way." He takes another step back. "But tell Bree..." His face shifts into something colder, more calculated. "Tell her daddy says hi."

The mist surges, and this time I swear the temperature actually drops. But before either of us can react, Phil turns and walks away, his uneven footsteps echoing down the hall.

"You okay?" Theo asks quietly once he's gone.

I realize my hands are shaking. With rage or adrenaline, I'm not sure. "Found something," I say, pulling out the camera. "And I'm betting it's not the only one."

Theo's expression hardens as he examines it. "We'll have the police—"

"No." I grab another box, needing to move, to do something. "Not yet. This is evidence, yeah, but we handle it smart. For Bree."

He nods, understanding all the things I'm not saying. We pack in silence after that, both of us cataloging every violation, every sign of control we should have seen sooner.

The mist stays with us, watchful and waiting, like it knows this isn't over.