Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty-Six
Shae
Later that afternoon, Iris sits at my kitchen table like she belongs there. I couldn’t stand her silence, so I invited her over for cocktails, sisterly chit-chat, and an offer I’m hoping she won’t be able to refuse.
I take her in, searching for something familiar in the contours of her face.
She’s pretty in an unassuming, careful way—not because she smiles too easily or keeps her hands folded like she’s waiting to be told what to do, but because of how she leans forward when I open my laptop, elbows grazing the wood, like this is a shared project.
Like she’s already woven herself into the frame.
I don’t invite people into my kitchen.
I especially don’t invite people who might be lying about sharing my blood.
“So,” I say, clicking through flight options, Costa Rica glowing blue-green on the screen. “I’m thinking late March. Dry season. Easier sell.”
Iris nods eagerly. “That makes sense. People want escape, not mudslides.”
She laughs softly at her own joke, then stops—checking my face to see if it landed.
It did. I just don’t show it.
I scroll. San José. Liberia. Smaller airstrips near the coast.
“This retreat is already sold out,” I continue. “But there’s a waitlist. Sponsors. Media interest. It’s… a lot.”
“I can help,” Iris says—too fast. “With logistics. Coordination. Whatever you need.”
Her face brightens like she’s been waiting for permission. Like I’ve handed her a purpose.
Interesting.
I glance at her and let my mouth curve into something polite. Grateful-adjacent.
“That could be useful,” I say. “It’s overwhelming, honestly.”
Her shoulders drop, like I’ve absolved her of something.
“I’d love to,” she says. “Truly. Anything.”
Of course you would.
This is why I’m doing it—letting her in, giving her a task, a title, a reason to stay close. It’s easier to observe someone when they think they’ve been invited.
I tap my trackpad, pulling up a spreadsheet. Budgets. Lodging blocks. Transportation vendors.
“If you helped,” I say casually, “it would give us time to get to know each other better.”
Her eyes flicker. Just once.
“Yes,” she says. “That would be… really nice.”
Measured.
Careful.
Smart.
I file that away.
Inside, my thoughts are sharper. This is the only way—to learn what she knows, to find out if she’s bluffing. Or worse, telling the truth.
Because I’m still not convinced.
Blood is convenient. Anyone can claim it. Especially someone who wants leverage.
I scroll again, pretending to be absorbed in flight times, while my peripheral vision studies her.
She watches me like I’m the sun. Admiring. Measuring. Hungry.
“I’ve followed everything you’ve done,” she says softly. “The podcast. The documentary. Costa Rica feels like the next evolution.”
I hum noncommittally.
“People need healing,” she continues. “And you’re… good at that.”
I almost laugh.
Instead, I smile.
“You don’t really know me yet,” I say.
Her gaze doesn’t waver. “I’d like to.”
Something tightens in my chest. Unwanted. Uninvited.
I think of Sophie.
Sweet Sophie, with her crooked drawings and quiet patience. The way she used to sit beside me on the bed, legs crossed, coloring inside the lines like it mattered. The way she cuddled up to me in the closet and let me wipe her tears. The way she believed in me without question.
The memory hits harder than I expect—sudden and blinding.
My throat closes. My vision blurs.
I snap my eyes back to the screen, like numbers can anchor me.
Iris tilts her head. “Are you okay?”
I swallow.
“Yes,” I say too fast.
She watches me more closely now, concern creasing her brow.
“You look pale.”
“Allergies,” I say, standing abruptly. “Spring does that to me.”
It’s a lie, but an easy one.
I reach for my water, feel my hand shake, set the glass down before she can clock it.
“I just need a minute,” I add.
“Of course,” she says gently. “Take your time.”
I move toward the hallway, every step deliberate. Controlled.
In the bathroom, I grip the sink and stare at my reflection.
Get it together.
I will not let the past ambush me. Not now. Not because of her.
I splash water on my face and breathe until the pressure eases. Emotions are a liability. Attachment is a burden. Love is a flaw.
When I come back, Iris is still at the table, scrolling through her phone—already imagining herself as part of this. Part of my life. Part of me.
I slide back into my chair.
“So,” I say smoothly, “let’s start with vendor outreach. I’ll forward you the files.”
Her smile blooms again—bright, earnest.
“Thank you,” she says. “I won’t let you down.”
I believe that she believes it. And that’s what makes her dangerous.
As I send the email, I think: I’ll manage this. I always do.
I just have to make sure Iris never forgets who’s in control—and make damn sure my past doesn’t decide otherwise.