Page 114 of Beneath the Shadows

“How was your walk?”

“It was nice.”

I study her for a moment trying to find any hint of what’s bothering her, but she avoids my eyes.

“I found something,” I say, reaching into my pocket, feeling the cold edges of the items I retrieved.

Alessia’s eyes widen when she sees what I’m holding. Her hands tremble slightly as she takes them from me. “Thank you,” she murmurs, her voice soft, distant, like she’s somewhere else entirely.

There’s a pause, a lingering silence between us. “Are you sure everything’s okay?” I ask gently, not wanting to push too hard but needing to know what’s going on.

Her fingers trace the edge of the ID, her lips parting as if to speak, but the words seem trapped. Finally, she exhales. “My camera got left in Alabama.”

I don’t respond right away, hoping she’ll ask me to replace it, to let me do something—anything. But she doesn’t. She just stares down at the ID, as if it holds the answer to something far beyond either of us.

And with that, an idea forms. Her birthday is in three weeks—an opportunity to maybe make things right, to give her something that might bring a little light back into her life. But I don’t say a word. Not yet.

“We’ll figure it out,” I say, though the sadness still lingers in her eyes.

As we walk into the kitchen, something outside catches my eye. Through the French doors, I spot a dark shape on the patio table. A shiver of cold dread crawls down my spine.

“What’s wrong?” Alessia asks, her voice laced with concern.

“Stay here,” I order. Hurrying out, every nerve is on edge. A bloody knife glints under the afternoon light. Next to it is a small, folded piece of paper, stained red at the edges. The note feels heavy in my hand, like the weight of something dark creeping closer.

I unfold it slowly. The words inside are brief but chilling:

“Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing. Your every step is watched, Alessia. Beware the shadows, for they may not let you escape next time—nor your keeper.”

“Oh my God,” Alessia whispers from behind me.

I whirl around, my pulse roaring. “I told you to stay—” The reprimand dies in my throat when I see her face. She’s gone pale, her eyes locked on the blood-stained knife.

Anger surges inside me, but I push it down, forcing it to stay buried. There will be plenty of time for anger. Right now, I have to be calm, for her. “It’s okay,” I say softly, pulling her close.

She trembles against me, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she leans into me, fragile, as if she’s about to break. “I’ll take care of this. You’re safe,” I promise, pressing my lips to the top of her head.

Alessia nods, but she says nothing.

I need to find out who did this, and how they got this close to my home.

“Let’s get you inside,” I say, guiding her back into the house. Her eyes stay on the knife as if it’s still calling to her.

“Whose blood…” Her voice trails off.

“I don’t know, but I’ll find out,” I reassure her. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

After settling her on the couch, I head to the kitchen to make a cup of the tea she’s always liked.Christmas Eve, a blend of cinnamon, vanilla, and orange. As soon as I open the tin, the familiar scent takes me back to another time.

On cold days after school, we’d sit under the bleachers, and she’d always have a cup of that fragrant tea. She once told me how her nanny, the only person who made her feel special and cared for, used to make it for her when she was little. Those smells, cinnamon, vanilla, orange, are forever tied to her.

When I was going to Alabama to bring her back, I made sure to order it online. I wanted something familiar in the house. Something to remind her of the times when she could still smile, when she felt warmth and comfort—even if just for a little while.

As I move through the kitchen, memories of her flood my mind. I remember so much about her, the way she used to smile, the light in her eyes when she talked about her dreams. And now, I’m trying to piece together what’s left of those days, hoping something as simple as this tea might help bring a little of that back.

While it steeps, I text Dante.

Me:Drop whatever you’re doing and get to my house.

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