Page 4 of The Reaper
“Which is most things. If you’re good enough.”
He didn’t argue. That’s why I kept him around.
By the time he left again, the wine was warm and the harbor breeze had turned ever so slightly cooler. I moved through the dining room, extinguishing candles one by one, until the space was cloaked in near-darkness. I knew every inch of the layout by heart. Every chair pushed in at the same angle. Every napkin folded with precision. The copper fixtures glowed dully under the sconces. The ceiling fan turned slow and lazy overhead. Nothing was out of place.
Except me.
I didn’t go upstairs.
Instead, I stepped outside and walked down the stone path through the courtyard, trailing my fingers along the tops of the tomato plants, letting the leaves brush my skin. The scent of basil was sharper now, almost medicinal. Somewhere nearby, a wind chime danced softly against the breeze.
I stopped at the iron gate and looked out through the bars toward South Battery.
It was late. The street was empty. The harbor stretched black and endless beyond the seawall, broken only by the glimmer ofboat lights in the distance. I could hear the faint sound of horse hooves a few blocks over—one of the late-night carriage tours. A reminder that Charleston never really slept, even if it liked to pretend.
I leaned against the gate, still holding the empty glass, and let myself feel the quiet.
It didn’t last.
A sudden flicker of movement caught my eye—just past the line of hedges across the street. A figure, maybe. Standing still. Watching.
I blinked. Looked again. Nothing.
A trick of the light, I told myself.
I wasn’t the kind of woman who jumped at shadows. I wasn’t the kind of woman who felt things before they happened. I wasn’t my mother.
I shook the thought loose, locked the gate behind me, and turned back toward the house.
Halfway up the stairs, I paused.
There was a letter in the mailbox slot. No postage. No name.
Just a folded sheet of thick, expensive paper tucked under the brass handle like it had been placed there deliberately.
I stared at it for a long time before I picked it up.
My name was written on the outside in clean, block handwriting.
No return address. No branding. Just a simple card inside, printed with one sentence:
I’m coming for dinner.
No date. No reservation code. No signature.
Just that.
I read it twice before I folded it back up, walked into the house, and turned the bolt behind me.
Then I locked the bolt again.
Just in case.
I left the note on the counter beside the wine, its sharp edge catching the dim light like it might slice open more than paper. I told myself it was nothing. Just a stunt. Some smug investor or food-obsessed creep who thought he was clever. That happened sometimes. Men with more money than sense, trying to prove they belonged in rooms they didn’t earn. I’d shut them down before. I’d shut them all down.
Still, I peeled off my apron with a little more urgency than usual.
The weight of the note clung to my skin like steam in a closed kitchen.
