The Watcher I Wed

Chapter 6: Cedar Ghost

Caleb's cedar scent clung to the sheets like a tight embrace, his arm heavy across my waist in sleep. I lay rigid as a board, the peach text burning under the pillow like a brand. Allies lie too. Tommy's snake tattoo slithered through my mind on repeat. Had it always matched the shadow of the hoodie, or was paranoia stitching patterns from smoke? Dawn leaked gray and grudgingly through the blinds, his alarm buzzing mercifully, pulling me from the edge.

Breakfast ritual cracked under the strain. Coffee splashed wildly across the counter, his soft "sorry, babe" kiss landing on my knuckles, but his eyes searched too keenly, storm clouds probing for cracks. "Last night... Tommy's full of expired s**t, Mia. It’s an old grudge from high school. The guy cornered you at that basement party, handsy as hell. I stepped in and took the swing. Scars from his teeth, not some bike bullshit." The truth rang half-hearted, or maybe that was just a wishful echo.

Work blurred into numbness—lattes foaming mechanically for suits who grunted orders without a glance, customers melting into ghosts under the fluorescents. My wrist itched with real hives now, strawberry phantoms rising unbidden under my long sleeve. Lena's text pinged mid-rush, the vibration jolting me: “Chip trace locks to Vic's IP—downtown office router.” But layers on layers, like someone was puppeteering. “Watch your six, babe.” And Tommy? Digging deeper—his badge smells off. Comfort came thin as the steam wafting from the espresso machine.

Home reeked of cedar—too strong, like he’d doused the air freshener in regret. The truck sat empty in the driveway, keys hooked neatly by the door. “Caleb?” My call echoed hollowly off the peeling walls. The basement door hung ajar—our "storage" half-dug hole, with damp concrete stairs leading to spiderweb corners and forgotten junk. The stairs creaked in protest under my socked feet, the air turning musty and thick. A single bulb swung bare overhead like a hanged question mark.

Boxes loomed stacked haphazardly against the cinder block wall, labeled in his neat block print: Misc Code Gear. Holiday Lights. Summer '15 Misc. One teetered on the edge, tipping as I brushed past—black film rolls spilling like secrets, dozens unspooling across the gritty floor. The labels were meticulous and typed: Summer Girl'15 – Bench Watch #3. Party Save – Frame 47. Oak Vigil – Full Roll.

My heart stuttered to a halt, cold sweat prickling. I snatched one roll of slow, negative strip curling oily black in the dim light—silhouettes blooming faintly: me on the park bench, licking a strawberry, the hoodie framing me in an intimate shot. Another unspooled: a teen basement party, red Solo cups scattered like blood drops, Vic’s hand clamped low on my shoulder, with Caleb's blur charging from the right, fist mid-arc.

A flashback reeled unbidden, film-strip sharp: Sixteen, bass thumping through the floorboards like a migraine, air thick with cheap smoke and sweeter spills. Vic's breath was hot on my neck. “Dance with your uncle, kiddo—just like old times,” his hand sliding from my waist to my hip, possessive, nails digging into me. Nausea surged; my push was weak—then hoodie boy materialized from the crush, a fresh scar bleeding, fist cracking Vic's jaw with a wet snap. “Back the f**k off her.” Chaos erupted, shouts and shoves. His whisper later in the alley was cool: “You’re safe now, Mia. I got you.” His eyes were storm-dark, cedar faint under the streetlamp.

The present snapped back ugly: rolls everywhere, an archive of stolen glances—my glances captured. Protective? Or a possessive cage?

Upstairs creaked heavily—someone was treading deliberately on the floorboards. The cedar scent flooded stronger. The garage door was ajar now, spilling yellow light.

Inside: My car was locked tight, windows fogged from the chill, but the scent trapped inside—cedar bottled, as if he’d sat vigil in the passenger seat, waiting. My key fumbled in the lock, the door popping with a sigh— the seat depressed faintly, but it was empty. The glovebox yawned open: a hoodie folded neatly like a gift, gray fabric soft, with a note pinned in the pocket: “Burned the old one for you last night. This one’s clean—wear it if you need the shadow close.”

His handwriting was familiar, looping and warm. My heart twisted sweet and sour.

But tucked in the fold, half-hidden, was a black leather glove from the park shadow, with V.H. stitched faintly in gold on the cuff—Victor's initials, prickling like an accusation.

The bedroom awaited dimly when I climbed back. His silhouette slouched in the armchair by the window, eyes open and fixed on the door. “Did you find the basement stuff? The rolls?”