Chapter 54
Corwin
The sky’s still gray when we load up the car, the kind of early morning that doesn’t belong to anyone yet. It smells like dew and cold dirt, and the town will still be asleep. Perfect.
We toss the last bag into the trunk. The box of evidence sits open beside me on the seat: pages, photos, printouts.
I barely slept last night, not with all the sorting and labeling and the sounds coming from down the hall.
Little Horror had my brothers wrapped around her fingers, and by the time I’d finished stapling the last packet together they worked her into the kind of moans that were sinful to listen to.
I shouldn’t be used to sharing her, but I am. We’ve shared everything since the womb.
Three men like us couldn’t ever survive three different women. We’d destroy them, or they’d destroy us. But she fits. She’s got the same darkness, the same rage we’ve carried for years. It’s like she was made to crawl out of the same grave we did.
Evander slides up to me with a grin on his face. “You ready?”
“Been ready.” I slam the trunk and wipe my hands on my jeans.
We move quickly back into the house and get started with cleaning.
Every surface is wiped down with alcohol and a microfiber rag.
Every trace of us is gone. By sunrise, no one will be able to prove we were even here.
If anyone searched or checked into it, we’ve been visiting family; just three good sons, home for the week.
Agatha pauses with her sleeve covered hand on the doorknob. She looks at the house but doesn't say anything, just tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear and then follows us out to the car.
I slide into the driver’s seat. The car smells like coffee and Agatha’s perfume. Evander takes shotgun while Garron and Little Horror get in the back quietly. With the car in gear, I ease out of the driveway.
The drive through town is slow, the streets empty, just porch lights glowing soft and orange. One by one, we pull over at each address on the ledger. We take turns getting out and dropping a packet into a mailbox or sliding it under a door. Every house gets a piece of the truth.
By the time the last one’s gone, the box is empty, and my chest feels lighter. There’s still more to do, but this part is done.
“Check the church and house?” Garron asks.
“Yeah. Might as well make sure it’s all ash.”
We roll through Agatha’s old neighborhood first. Her house—or what used to be her house—is nothing but debris and yellow tape now.
The smell of smoke still hangs heavy, a ghost in the air.
I stare at it too long, wondering if the bones turned to dust or if they’re still there somewhere under the rubble.
Then the church comes into view. Or what’s left of it.
Fire trucks still idle nearby, engines rumbling. The front wall’s gone, the steeple collapsed like a broken neck. A coroner van waits by the wreckage, and two men roll a gurney with a black body bag on it. It doesn’t matter. They can know it was murder. They just won’t know who pulled the strings.
We get back on the highway. The hum of tires fills the car, and for a while, nobody says anything. Then Little Horror starts singing. It’s quiet at first, a hum that turns into off-key words. Baybe’s Father, Son, Holy Spirit. The irony makes my jaw ache with laughter I don’t let out.
When the song ends, another starts—Bea Miller’s Dracula. She belts it out, voice cracking, hair whipping in the breeze from the cracked window. She looks so alive I almost forget all the death we just delivered.
We take the second exit off the highway.
She stops singing long enough to glance between us. “Where are we going?”
I grin. “A little pit stop.”
She frowns but says nothing as I drive the familiar road, trees crowding close on either side. The sun’s just starting to rise now, painting the world in that pink light.
When the house comes into view, Little Horror gasps.
The place looks like something out of a gothic fairytale—massive white columns, pale yellow siding, dark red roof, two wraparound balconies.
“Welcome to where we grew up,” Evander says, half-smiling.
Her eyes are wide. “You lived here?”
“Yeah.” Garron leans forward. “Been in the family forever. Great-grandparents, grandparents, now Mom and Dad.”
“So you guys come from money? You’re rich murderers?”
I snort. “Yeah, old money and older trauma. Don’t get too romantic about it.”
“It’s… amazing,” she whispers, still staring.
“It’s just a house,” I mutter. “The people inside are what matter.”
“This is not what I pictured when I imagined your childhood. I was thinking more murder shack but with a porch swing.” She raises a brow at me as she sasses me.
“Careful,” I tell her, climbing out of the car. “You keep mouthing off like that, my mom’ll adopt you out of spite.”
“Good,” she fires back. “Maybe she’ll teach me how to handle you three properly.”
That earns a laugh from Garron. Even Evander cracks a grin.
Garron grabs her hand and leads her toward the walkway and porch steps. The house looms larger the closer we get. White steps, big front door, flowerbeds lined with neat little stones. The porch smells like lemon polish and honeysuckle, the same way it always did when we were kids.
Mom swings the door open before I can even reach for the handle.
“My boys!” She barrels out like a five-foot hurricane, wrapping her arms around Evander, then me, then Garron, in that exact order she’s done since birth.
Her auburn hair is pinned up and as always, she’s barefoot.
Then her gaze lands on Agatha. “And who is this stunning creature?”
“Mom, this is Agatha,” I say. “Agatha, Caroline.”
“You’re beautiful.” She takes Agatha’s face in both hands, looks her over, then pulls her into a hug.
“She’s also your grandson’s teacher,” Garron adds.
“Ohhh really?” Mom’s grin widens. “So you’re the one wrangling my little Gummy Bear every day.”
Agatha laughs softly. “He’s a sweetheart. Total handful, though.”
Dad appears in the doorway, wiping his hands on a rag. “Gets that from his uncles.” His eyes are the color of the sky, his hair is iron gray, and he’s wearing a black t-shirt that says Dead Man Forge.
“Agatha, this is our dad, Henry.”
Agatha’s eyes narrow, recognition flashing across her face.
“Wait,” she says slowly. “Did I call you once—about a ring?”
Dad freezes, then smiles. “Could have. I get a few of those calls now and again.”
“I knew it!” She points. “Dead Man’s Forge. You made the rings. The ones your sons wear.”
She grabs his hand before he can dodge, eyeing the band. Then she looks at Mom, who just grins and holds out her right hand, same ring just more delicate shining in the morning light.
“It’s our family’s mark,” Mom says softly.
“A sigil of loyalty. Every one of us wears one.
We know who and what our boys are. But they're ours, and they're good men.
A little dangerous and deranged, but good men.
They're my boys. Their sister, dad and I all wear the same sigil of loyalty to them.
Someday if Mason finds out, he'll swear and be given a ring. We wear it to remind us we stand together—always.”
Agatha blinks. “Do I get a ring then? Is that why I’m here—to swear silence?”
“You’re here to meet our parents, not join a cult,” I cut in fast.
She crosses her arms. “You sure? Feels pretty culty to me.”
I grin. “Don’t worry. You’ve already been initiated. Just took a little blood, fire, and a few felony charges.”
Her lips twitch. “Then I’m in good company.”
“Corwin,” Mom warns, that sweet tone that means I’m a step away from a backhand. “Don’t be rude. She’s the first girl you’ve brought home, and I already adore her.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter. “She’s a real charmer.”
“Keep it up and I’ll charm you with a kitchen knife,” Agatha whispers under her breath.
I stick my tongue out. Mom sees it and smothers a smile with her knuckles. Traitor.
Mom grins. “Good. Now let’s have cider. It’s cold enough for it.” She disappears into the kitchen.
Agatha follows her, offering to help, and I catch myself watching them go—my mother and the woman I’d kill for, moving in perfect step. For a second, I almost say something, some stupid line to ruin the moment. I keep it in. Some things are better left hanging in the air.
“Let’s go,” Dad says, nodding toward the back door.
We line up like good little boys and follow him out to the back porch.
Dad leans against the railing, spinning his ring on his finger while his eyes move from me to each of my brothers.
Garron and Evander go to the wicker couch and plop down, but I stay standing across from Dad with my arms crossed.
“This the one?” he asks quietly.
We all look at one another and nod.
"You're sure?"
Evander nods without a pause. “Absolutely.”
“One hundred percent,” Garron says.
Dad looks at me. "And you, Corwin? You're the wild card here."
"I’m obsessed with her," I say.
“That isn’t an answer,” he says. "Is she it for you?"
"Yes," I bite out through clenched teeth. "She makes me feel things other than murderous rage."
"Then make sure you treat her well. Taking a woman between three men, triplets or not, is hard. But add in your guys' extracurriculars? Don’t let her be your downfall. Your mother isn't built to visit you on the other side of plexiglass while you wear jumpsuits."
“We know,” I say.
Mom and Agatha appear, with our mom carrying a tray with a fat glass pitcher and mismatched mugs.
Steam coils and cinnamon sticks rest inside each mug.
Agatha is talking with her hands, animatedly.
She’s already telling Mom about a kid in her class who pronounces volcano like “bokano.” Mom is cackling.
We sit and drink. The cider is hot and apple-sweet with a perfect amount of spice. Dad asks about the drive, and Mom asks if Agatha can cook.
“So, Agatha,” Mom says. “You teach kindergarten. What else do you do? Hobbies? Does teaching pay much nowadays?”
Agatha’s smile falters just enough to notice. She glances at me, then Evander. Garron lifts a brow, silently daring her to lie.
“I have a second job,” she says finally. “Online.”
Mom hums, stirring her cider. “Online like tutoring? Or… something a little less PTA-friendly?”
Agatha lets out a breath that sounds halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “Less PTA-friendly.” She straightens in her seat. “I run a cam channel. Horror-themed. Costumes, storylines, explicit content. It started as performance art, but it pays the bills better than teaching.”
Mom looks up, eyes sharp but not cruel. “Well. You certainly don’t bore easy, do you?”
Agatha shakes her head. “No, ma’am.”
“Good.” Mom leans back, studying her like she’s measuring weight, not worth. “You own what you are. I respect that. But I’ll tell you something about my boys—when they love, they don’t share. And what you do? It’s built on being seen by everyone.”
Agatha holds her gaze, unflinching. “Being seen saved me. It made me stop feeling like a ghost. I can’t give that up.”
Mom nods slowly. “Then you’d better make sure you’re the one holding the leash.”
Dad chuckles, low and dry. “Sounds like you already figured them out, honey.”
Agatha smiles, small but sure. “I’m trying.”
Mom takes another slow sip, then sets her mug down with a quiet clink. “You talk like someone who had to build herself from ashes. Where’d that start?”
The air shifts. Agatha’s smile softens, but doesn’t fade. “You really want to know?”
Mom nods once. “If you’re sitting at my table and claiming you’re with the three parts of my soul, yes.”
Agatha exhales, eyes flicking toward the steam rising from her mug.
“My parents were church people. Not the kind that bake casseroles and send postcards. The kind that called their sins obedience and their punishments love. I grew up being told pain was purification.” Her throat tightens, but she keeps her voice steady.
“I left at eighteen and never looked back. Haven’t spoken to them since, and I don’t plan to. ”
No one moves for a moment. Even Dad’s steady presence stills.
Finally, Mom reaches across the table and lays a hand over Agatha’s. “Good,” she says simply. “Sometimes family is something you survive, not something you keep.”
Agatha’s eyes glisten, but she blinks it away. “Exactly that.”
Mom squeezes once, then releases her hand. “Then welcome to ours. For however long you can stand us.”
Agatha laughs, a sound that cracks something open in the room. The tension lifts, replaced by something quiet and dangerous and almost tender.
When it’s time to leave, Mom insists on a picture.
She still uses her old Polaroid, the one that squeals when it prints.
We line up on the front porch steps. Garron tries to look respectable.
Evander fails at looking anything but kind.
I do my best not to look like a felon. Agatha slides between us and hooks her fingers in mine, and Evander’s belt loops like she has always been there.
The camera spits the square out, and Mom shakes it like it is still 1998.
Colors bloom. We look like a family in a haunted postcard.
“Perfect,” Mom says, satisfied. She tucks the picture into the mirror frame by the door, like it has always lived there.
She kisses all our cheeks, mine a second longer, and whispers, “Do not ruin this.” I kiss her wrist in apology, and she lets me go.
Dad shakes our hands, but when he hugs Agatha, he leans close and whispers something that makes her eyes widen before she nods. She doesn’t say what he told her, and I don’t ask….yet.
We head for the car. Evander opens her door, Garron brushes a hand down her back, and I glance once over my shoulder at my parents on the porch. Mom waves. Dad just watches, quiet, unreadable.
Back in the car, Agatha blows out a breath like she’s been holding one since the oaks. “Your mom is terrifying in the best way,” she says.
“Yeah,” I say. “She runs the world from that porch.”
“And your dad,” she adds, watching the house shrink between the trees. “He looks like he could build a house and bury a body by lunch.”
“Accurate,” I say, pulling onto the road. “You still in?”
She turns from the window and pins me with a look that makes me want to kidnap time. “All in,” she says.
“Good,” I say, and let the oaks close over the drive behind us. We head home with destruction in the rearview and a girl who throws fire like confetti. I roll my shoulders and feel the day set in my bones.
We blew in. We blew out. We are done. At least for now.