“Of course.” Mr. Lyle turned toward her, his expression unreadable in the dashboard glow. “But be careful, Ms. Flynn. The murder of a councilmember calls for swift resolution, and with the police in possession of that video, they may decide a convenient villain is already within reach.”
A chill threaded down her spine. “You think they’re looking at me?”
His mouth quirked, not quite a smile. “You found the body. You were seen there. You carry the stain of proximity. That is often enough.”
Goldie’s fingers tightened around the strap of her purse. “Then what am I supposed to do? Wait until someone decides the story looks better with me in it?”
For a moment, he studied her. Then, his gaze slid to the looming bulk of Greymarket, its windows glinting like half-lidded eyes.
“The city will write its version,” he said at last. “But Greymarket writes its own. And it watches you for a reason.” His voice dropped lower, almost conversational. “If you wish to understand what it knows… you should ask it.”
Goldie’s breath caught. Before she could demand what that meant, Mr. Lyle’s door clicked open. He stepped out ontothe curb with the same unhurried precision he brought to everything.
She scrambled after him, her own door shutting with a thud that felt too final. The weight of his words followed her onto the pavement as they crossed toward the building’s entrance.
Chapter
Twenty-One
Goldie’s footsteps sank into the velvety hush of the corridor as the elevator doors slid closed behind her. Here on the seventeenth floor, the familiar sheen of Greymarket Towers gave way to something altogether more peculiar. The overhead lights bloomed in muted greens and purples, as though filtered through stained glass long since shattered.
Recessed windows beside each doorway offered only mirrors of the corridor itself, no view of the outside world. Goldie pressed her palm to the cool glass of one, willing it to show something real: the city lights, the street below, anything. But it remained opaque, reflecting back only her wide-eyed face.
She was here to see a cryptid about sleepwalking. Two cryptids, if she wanted to really get technical. And this place, with its shifting patterns and whispered lullabies, seemed to understand.
She knocked on the door of 17R—a designation no other floor of Greymarket possessed; an apartment that had sprouted into being just last year. Inside, the muffled thud of footstepshurried toward the door, and Goldie hugged herself, feeling her shoulders drop away from her ears in obvious relief.
When the door swung open, it revealed a very tall, unmistakably not-human figure. His eyes glowed a deep, burnished red that seemed to pulse in the dim hallway light, and he wore a frilly apron that bore the declaration LIVE LAUGH BAKE in cheerful script. As he tilted his head, a series of short clicks emerged from his thorax, and the folded wings at his back rustled softly.
“Hello, Goldie,” Sig Samora said gravely. “It is always pleasing to see you. Enter, if you will.”
Goldie inhaled sharply. “Hello, Sig. It smells delicious in here. What are you cooking?”
Sig let the door close behind her and stepped aside, antennae twitching in what passed for a curious nod. “I am preparing stuffed pork chops for my beloved and roasted firefly larvae for myself.” He politely ushered her into the warm glow of the apartment. “There is plenty. Would you care to remain for dinner?”
“Plenty of yours, or plenty of Nell’s?”
“Both,” Sig replied, and produced the softchuffing-churringsound she had come to know as his laughter.
Goldie forced a grin, but her glitter was wearing thin. “Thanks, Sig. I… I don’t want to intrude. Sorry, I should have realized you hadn’t eaten yet. I can come up later this evening if you guys don’t have anything, or you can just have Nell text me when she gets home?—”
Sig clicked sharply as his antennae twitched. “You are performing politeness, but your voice carries strain. I detect tightness in your chest.”
His red eyes flared a touch brighter. Another soft click, more concerned than sharp this time. “You are in pain. You are pretending not to be. Why?”
Goldie blinked up at him and, horrifyingly, her eyes began to well with tears.
Sig emitted a low, sympathetic thrum, and stepped forward. Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms and wings around her.
The moment she felt the cocoon of soft fuzz and chitin close around her, Goldie folded like wet parchment. She buried her face in his chest and bit her lip hard, trying to keep the sob from escaping. It didn’t work.
Sig stroked her back with deliberate, gentle pressure. “Hush now, sparkly one,” he murmured. “Your grief may bloom here without judgment. But tell me, what has harmed you?”
“I don’t know, Sig,” Goldie sobbed. “I went to the police station—and they said I was sleepwalking—and I don’t remember—and everything’s been weird since I found the body—and—and?—”
Sig hummed and tightened his embrace just slightly. “You will sit,” he said, patting her back with a gentle claw. “I will bring you tea. Possibly cake. Then we will speak.”
He leaned back just enough to look down at her, red eyes steady and unblinking. “You are safe here. I will not allow harm to touch you, not even the kind woven through the threads.”
