I went back to Stoker's the next night.
Not for the drinks. Not for the company. Not even for the low chance of a second round with another angry boyfriend.
I just didn't want to go home yet.
Tiff was asleep when I left. Her arm draped off the side of the couch, glasses still on, book still open like she'd tried to stay up but lost the fight. I kissed her temple, pulled the blanket over her, and walked out with the kind of guilt that scraped under your ribs and made everything feel colder.
Now I was back in the bar where everything smelled like old grease and broken dreams. My face still ached, my ribs screamed with every breath, and my knuckles were stiff from clenching.
Donnie gave me a look as soon as I walked in.
"That bad, huh?"
I didn't answer. Just slumped into the same stool, wincing slightly as I sat. The leather stuck to my jacket with a squelch.
He poured without asking. Brown liquid. No label. He always gave me the stuff he kept under the bar for himself.
"Thanks," I muttered, wrapping my hands around the glass like it owed me something.
Donnie leaned on the bar with both elbows, cleaning a glass that didn't need cleaning. His usual move when he wanted to talk but didn't want to look like he wanted to talk.
"Brack?" he asked after a beat.
I took a slow sip. Let it burn all the way down before answering. "Yeah."
He let out a low whistle. "Bastard still got those two cro-mags following him around?"
"Tank and Grit," I said, smirking despite myself. "Yeah. Like a walking demolition crew with no permits."
Donnie shook his head, the lines in his face deepening. "You're getting sloppy."
"I'm getting desperate."
He didn't respond right away. Just tossed the clean glass into the sink and poured one for himself. Rare move.
We drank in silence for a while. The jukebox in the back was playing something bluesy. Low and sad. Some woman singing about a man who didn't come home. Maybe I should've dated her. We'd have a lot to talk about.
Donnie finally said, "How much you owe him?"
"Two grand."
He let out a long breath. "And you got... what? Fifty?"
"Thirty-two," I said. "And two subway tokens."
That actually made him laugh. Just a short grunt, but I'll take it.
I ran a hand through my hair. "I'm running out of time, Don. I've tried everything. Hustling, odd jobs, cards—hell, I even considered selling my watch, and this thing doesn't even tick anymore. It just looks expensive."
"You could try not getting punched every night."
I raised my glass in a tired toast. "Where's the fun in that?"
He stared at me for a long moment, then muttered, "Might be something."
I stilled.
Donnie didn't say might be something unless it was exactly something.
I turned my head slowly. "What kind of something?"
He wiped his hands on a rag, leaned in slightly, and dropped his voice low. "Old place. Mansion, outskirts of the city. Way past where the bus stops run. Not many people talk about it anymore."
I frowned. "What, like abandoned?"
"No." His lips thinned. "Occupied. But not in any real way."
I arched a brow. "Don't go poetic on me, Don."
He ignored me. "Used to be some rich family's estate. Big old gothic thing. Looks like a Dracula prop house from the outside. Overgrown gardens, wrought iron gates, stone gargoyles and all that."
"Sounds delightful."
He grunted. "Rumor is, the place is full of antiques. Real old stuff. Paintings, jewelry, sculptures. Priceless, probably. But no staff. No alarms. No cameras. No visitors. Nobody comes or goes."
My brows drew together. "And what, you just happened to hear this from a guy who owed you beer money?"
He gave me a look. "I don't give tips to people who'll mess it up. But you... you've got the kind of bad luck that makes you brave."
"Or stupid."
"Usually the same thing."
I drained my drink, heart already ticking louder in my chest.
"This a set-up?" I asked. "You sending me to some weird cult house to get eaten by a taxidermied moose?"
Donnie chuckled. "Nah. But you didn't hear it from me."
I gave him a long look. "What's the catch?"
"There's always a catch," he said. "But I figure you've already hit rock bottom. Might as well find out if there's a basement."
I laughed. Short, bitter. "You know I'll go."
"Yeah," he said, pouring us both another. "I know."
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I didn't go straight to the mansion.
You don't survive long in my world by walking blind into a mystery wrapped in ivy and stone.
Instead, I went home. Quietly. Slipped in without waking Tiffany. She was curled into the corner of the couch again, blanket tucked under her chin, headphones still in her ears. A single lamp burned on the kitchen counter. I left it on.
The next morning, I got to work.
Not the kind of work that pays—if I had that, I wouldn't be robbing haunted mansions. This was the other kind. The type you do in shadows, where half the truth's wrapped in rumors and the rest is locked behind files you're not supposed to see.
First stop: the public records office.
God bless old city buildings with bored clerks and systems that hadn't been updated since the nineties. I gave them a fake name, smiled like I belonged, and told them I was doing a "restoration report for an independent historical journal."
They didn't care.
A few hours and a coffee stain later, I found it.
Villa Dahlia.
That was the name—though no one called it that anymore. Most people didn't call it anything. It wasn't even listed on modern city maps. Like the place had been deliberately erased.
The files were dusty, brittle, almost forgotten.
The estate had been built in 1892 by a shipping magnate named Charles Thorne. Old money. Real old. Originally four stories, forty-three rooms, private garden, ballroom, library, and a crypt under the west wing. Of course it had a crypt. Why not?
He died. Family took over. Then the next one. Then something... changed.
The records got murky around the 1940s. Half-filled logs. Gaps. No mention of sale or transfer. Just a note from a city inspector in 1953:
"Property occupied. Owner declined inspection. No staff present. Door answered by a woman—uncooperative, but polite."
Weird.
Even weirder? No property taxes paid since 1971. And no one ever came knocking.
I leaned back in the chair, rubbing my jaw.
Something about it all scratched at my instincts. It didn't feel right.
But it felt real. And real was better than safe right now.
I made copies of what I could, folded the blueprints, and slipped out before anyone got nosy.
Next stop: my friend Kye's place. If "friend" was the word for a guy who'd once tried to sell me a fake diamond ring and then helped me hack a university's alumni system in the same week.
He let me in wearing a bathrobe and boxers, one eye bloodshot, the other glued to a gaming monitor.
"Cass," he said without looking up. "To what do I owe the existential dread?"
"I need tech. A signal jammer, lockpick kit, flashlight, gloves, and something that doesn't look like a gun but works like one."
He blinked. "You finally robbing the mayor's office?"
"Worse. Something old. Big. Creepy."
He grinned. "You're speaking my love language."
Fifteen minutes later, I left with a beat-up duffel bag full of stolen dreams and overpriced gadgets. He even threw in a thermal scope "just for fun."
Back home, I spread everything out on the floor like a war table.
Gloves. Flashlight. Crowbar. Portable lock picks. A mask. Not a ski mask—too cliché. Just a simple black neck gaiter. Enough to keep cameras from getting a clean shot if there were any.
I doubted there were.
Donnie said no alarms, and I believed him. But I'd learned to expect the worst, even from the people I trusted.
Still, something about this place buzzed in my bones. Not fear. Not even danger.
Just... wrongness.
It wasn't just the quiet. It was the silence. The kind of hush you get in places that have forgotten they used to be alive.
I stared at the blueprints again.
Servants' entrance—north side. Garden overgrown, but the stone path still looked walkable. Windows: antique, rotted wood frames, easily forced. West wing collapsed. South wing... untouched.
There was a library. An art gallery. An old wine cellar.
And somewhere in that place, there had to be something worth taking. Something that could buy me time. Buy me safety. Maybe even buy Tiff a real chance.
I zipped up the bag and shoved it under the couch.
Tomorrow night, I'd go.
And whatever secrets Dahlia was hiding—I'd find them.
Even if they found me first.