I don’t know what to do with this version of myself. I’m used to being the one who can’t be stopped—by my father, by a code, by the walls of my own head. Now I’m stopped. Everything I do is in the context of his shadow. I’d be embarrassed if I didn’t suspect he feels the same.
The next morning, I catch him on the back deck, sharpening a knife. The sun is low and orange. He runs the blade along a tiny whetstone with the patience of someone who’s built his life around maintenance.
"That's the third weapon I've seen you with today," I say, slumping into one of the deck chairs. "And it's not even noon."
He doesn't look up. "This one's just for the kitchen."
"You should maybe clarify whose side you're on."
He sets the stone down and stretches, all the vertebrae in his back snapping like bubble wrap. "Are you seeing threats inside the house?"
I shake my head. “Not unless you count yourself. Or those pillows,” I add, nodding at the absurd, tasseled throw cushions that have become the only splash of color in the entire place.
He acknowledges neither, just wipes the blade with the hem of his shirt. He stands, and for a second, I think, this is what my mother would call an eligible profile. She’d say something about the jawline, the seriousness, the way he fills a doorway. I file thataway for later, under Things I Don’t Need To Deal With Right Now.
At 10 AM sharp, my father calls. The ringtone is obnoxious: “Respect” by Aretha Franklin, set as a joke for his contact. I can’t bring myself to change it. Cade materializes in the doorway between rings, eyes locked on my phone screen as if it might detonate.
“Don’t answer,” he says.
“You said not to answer if it was unknown,” I say, already holding the phone to my ear. “Dad hardly counts as the Zodiac Killer.”
He doesn’t like that, but he doesn’t argue—just stands with his arms crossed, lips compressed into a blank line.
“Hi Dad,” I say, my tone bright. “No, I’m fine. No, the nightmares aren’t any worse than before. No, I don’t want Darkwatch consulting; they charge by the hour. No, he’s not being ‘weird’—he’s just being a professional.”
Pause. Cade’s jaw ticks, the only part of him that moves. I want him to hear, so I go on, “Yes, I know he’s ex-military. No, he doesn’t talk about it. Yes, he’s still here. Yes, he’s still awake. Sure, Dad, put me on speaker so Mom can hear.” After a beat: “I miss you too.”
I end the call and toss the phone onto the coffee table. “They say hi.”
Cade is already returning to his surveillance, but he says without turning, “Don’t give them anything useful.”
I want to ask what he means. But I know perfectly well. In my family, information is never exchanged without a ledger. Every call is a transaction, every anecdote a future bargaining chip. Cade’s reticence is almost refreshing: he reveals nothing, asks nothing, expects nothing. If there is a power struggle here, it’s the only kind I know how to do.
The next three hours are a master class in ghosting myself. I text Elaine, who does not reply. Her parents are firmly in the “this happened because she was drunk” camp. I try an upper-level Sudoku so far beneath my threat level I nearly throw it at the window. I flip through the books Cade picked for me—Elena Ferrante, Cormac McCarthy, Angela Davis—but nothing sticks. The effort to get outside my head is like swimming in dry air. I keep losing track of time.
Eventually, I try the simplest trick in the book: I leave my door just an inch ajar. It’s deliberate. Cade told me to keep it closed, for security, even when I shower. Now I sit on my bed and listen, just to see what happens.
For a while, it’s nothing. Then: the sound of his boots, slow and even, approaching down the hall. He stops outside the door. Leans in. Waits.
I count out the seconds, just to see if he’ll call me on it. Six. Seven. Eight.
He knocks once. “You left your door open.”
“It’s my house.”
He opens it all the way. I expect a scolding. Instead, he regards me with the cool detachment of a vet examining a strange dog. “Anyone could walk in.”
“Maybe I’m not afraid of everyone,” I say.
He doesn’t answer, doesn’t budge. After a long moment: “Lock it next time.”
He retreats. The door click is precise, not slammed. It bothers me more than if he’d yelled.
I lie back on the bed. I stare at the ceiling. I resist, with all my will, the urge to unlock the door again.
Around three, the hunger catches up to me. I limp to the kitchen, which is a riot of overstocked groceries if you’re into protein bars and bottled water. The only person who ever cooked in this house was my father, and that was years ago: pre-primaries, pre-DC. His politics were local, and our family of three managed to go ten minutes without a press release. I find a jar of peanut butter and eat from it with a spoon.
I stare out the window for a long time. The lawn looks the same, but nothing feels the same. For a second, I can imagine crossing the grass, walking the road, hitching a ride to nowhere. I don’t, though. Survival is the new campaign. I don’t intend to lose.