Page 41 of Infernal Affairs

My gaze drifts over the mugs waiting beside the French press, the honey on the counter, the fresh flowers in their vase, the groceries scattered across the kitchen.

Maybe we already had.

EPILOGUE: THREE YEARS LATER

ENOCH

Three years.

Three years of not dying of loneliness. Three years of not running, not hiding, not holding my breath for the next cataclysm. Three years since I started learning what it’s like to wake up with something to lose, and—slowly, stubbornly, hilariously—what it’s like to realize I want to keep it.

The lighthouse is never silent for long. This morning, it’s the gulls outside, their calls insistent as drills on steel, and the low whistle of the tea kettle working out its existential crisis in the kitchen. Dawn is only a pale rumor at the window, the sea dithering between slate and lavender, but I am awake and upright. Some habits can’t be unmade.

I pad barefoot down the spiral stairs, careful not to startle our dog, Lenore, asleep in front of the stove. She’s a rescue, courtesy of Daisy’s campaign, and she dreams so hard her paws paddle across the linoleum, chasing spectral tennis balls or the ghosts of old biscuits.

The counter is a war zone: flour dust, a cyclone of measuring spoons, unwashed mixing bowls piled into a sculptural testament to Daisy’s refusal to confine her experiments to the bakery. A lopsided loaf cools on a wire rack, scored with what might be an arcane sigil or, possibly, Daisy’s initials. I don’t touch it. Frenzied as her baking always looks, I know she catalogs every crumb.

I set about the sacred ritual of coffee. Local beans, ground by hand—not because I’m a snob, but because the electric grinder scares the hell out of me before sunrise. Pour-over, precisely timed. I even have a little timer shaped like a red devil. Daisy got it for me as a joke, but I use it anyway. These days, I seem to use everything Daisy brings into my life.

She’s in the loft, cocooned in blankets and the sort of sleep that only happens when you know no one will come kicking down your door. I could watch her all morning—the way her hair tangles over her mouth, how she sometimes snores when she’s two dreams deep—but instead I let her rest. She’ll be up soon enough. She can’t help herself.

I’m arranging two mugs and a plate of toast—Daisy will want eggs, but she’ll pretend she doesn’t, and then eat all of mine—when the pounding starts.

At first, it’s so regular I mistake it for gulls slamming against the glass. But then Lenore looks up, ears pricked, and I know: someone’s at the door. Someone arrived early, knowing how much I hate surprises.

I open it. Of course, it’s Zadok.

He’s wearing a sweater so ugly it might be a dare and holding a half-empty thermos with CAUTION: TOXIC WASTE printed in block letters down the side. He looks as if he’s slept on the beach, which is entirely possible.

“Morning, brother,” he says, unrepentant. “Is there coffee?”

“There’s always coffee,” I say, stepping aside. His boots leave clumps of sand inside, but I sweep them up as he passes.

Zadok collapses onto a kitchen stool, grabs the extra mug, and watches as I pour. “I see Daisy’s been blessing the air,” he says, eyeing the flour.

“She promised not to bake before sunrise,” I say.

“She’s constitutionally incapable of that,” Zadok says, opening his thermos to pour something caramel-colored into his mug. “Clover’s on her ‘no sugar’ thing again. I’m not allowed home unless I bring back evidence of protein.”

Daisy appears at the top of the stairs, hair a corona around her face, and stops to take in the mess. She is utterly unembarrassed by her own chaos. She grins at Zadok, then at me.

“I thought I heard the end of times. Good morning, Z.”

Zadok raises his mug in salute. “Is that bread for sale, or is it yours?”

Daisy tilts her chin in negotiation. “Half for you. Half for Enoch. I get the heels.”

Lenore is already underfoot, tail wagging. Zadok tosses her a chunk of crust, which she inhales.

Daisy floats down, snags my coffee, and tips her head onto my shoulder as if she hasn’t slept beside me for years. Some days, it still takes me by surprise—the easy weight of her, the trust of it.

“We’re not opening a café here,” I warn, gently extricating my mug.

She pretends to pout, then winks at Zadok. “What’s the news?”

“The clammers' union is on strike again. Cassian has a big case he can’t stop talking about. Clover says the wind’s shifting, but she always says that.” He takes a sip, then adds, “Also, Atlas has been looking for you.”

“For me?” I ask, certain it’s a mistake.