Chapter 4
Four
Hiram parks in front of his parents’ house. He was raised here, but it’s never been home.
White brick. Black trim and shutters. Modern yet classic fixtures.
Award-winning landscaping. He knows the aesthetic continues inside: clinical and impersonal.
Portraits of a perfect family hang alongside expensive abstract art.
Hiram knows every inch of this house, has climbed every tree, overturned every rock, and remembers the weakest points in their security talisman.
He takes the stairs two at a time. The family talisman greets him with a green glow before the door creaks open.
Hiram passes the grand foyer, entrance hall, and open-plan kitchen and living room, surprised Simran is nowhere to be seen.
He ventures deeper, through the archway, passing the dining room and library.
“You’re picking him up early today.”
His father’s voice startles him. Hiram’s eyes scan three points before landing on the source in the adjacent sitting room.
With broad shoulders, stern features, and the advantage of height, Barrett Ellis is the kind of man who makes everything around him look small.
As a child, Hiram had hoped to surpass him, but fell three inches short.
Despite his presence, Barrett is quiet by choice, not nature.
Hiram follows his gaze to Antaris behind the glass wall in the sunroom examining each potted plant intensely without touching.
“How long has he been at it?” Hiram asks.
“An hour,” Barrett replies. “Your mother gave up trying to engage with him. I think it’s his favorite room.”
“What do you mean by engage with him?”
His father gives him a knowing look. “She talks to him at length, shows him Arcadia Academy pamphlets, and has now taken to giving him lessons on our family history.”
Shit. “Where is she now?”
“In her dressing closet, decompressing and changing for dinner. Are you still going to Los Angeles to complete your move?”
“Yes, I fly out early in the morning and return the same evening. Everything’s set up, I just need to sign the last of my leave-of-absence forms from the firm and the paperwork for the movers.”
“Have you told Antaris?”
“No.” Hiram isn’t sure how to approach the conversation. “I’ll be back before he notices I’m gone.”
Barrett says nothing. The television is muted, gray silk curtains drawn, lights dimmed.
Although retired, his father dresses like he’s still the mayor: navy dress pants, white shirt, maroon tie, and leather shoes.
His graying hair is slicked back, making his widow’s peak more prominent, his pale skin starker.
His reading glasses are on the table next to a sweating glass of lemon water, though he prefers brandy.
His quiet rebellion includes resting his feet on the coffee table, one of the many things Hiram’s mother has banned.
Barrett gestures over his shoulder. “You have a few things you need to take with you.”
Hiram didn’t notice the boxes and shopping bags filling the back corner. “I didn’t order—”
“For your house.” Barrett looks like he’s swallowed salt water. “You mentioned needing kitchen and bathroom essentials. Charlotte was busy. I had time.”
The significance slowly dawns on Hiram. His father pays for what he wants, money is no object, but he’s never had the patience to shop around.
“Gift receipts are in the bags.” His gesture is not up for discussion.
“I asked the housekeeper what you might need to be comfortable. She suggested silverware, dishes, cups, pots and pans, kitchen utensils, and dish towels. She also mentioned bath towels, floor mats, and facecloths. I do not remember your color preferences, so I kept my purchases neutral.”
“Thank you.” It’s the first time Hiram has said it in over a decade.
Barrett turns to him. “It is the only thing I can do. Fatherhood is . . . I cannot give advice on something I failed at.”
Sitting with the part of himself that wants to reject the gifts and agree with his father is difficult, but Hiram waits until it’s buried under apathy.
As a child, he studied his father’s cues obsessively, always watching from the outside in.
The time for heart-to-hearts has long passed.
He won’t soothe Barrett’s guilt with false platitudes.
If Barrett believes he failed as a father, then he did.
Years of evidence leave Hiram incapable of saying otherwise.
“I need to go.”
His father raises his glass. “Brandy before you leave?”
It’s an invitation Hiram has never received. He stiffly accepts. “Make it a double.”
Unsurprisingly, the brandy is smooth.
“Your mother is desperate for you to spend more time here.”
“I know.”
The ensuing pause gives Hiram space to admit he’s torn. Despite years of silence, they still came when he needed them. No questions asked. Sometimes, he feels he owes them more of himself than he is willing to give.
“Another?” His father taps the decanter.
“No.” Hiram stands, dusts off his pants, and prepares to interrupt Antaris’s exploration.
He’s at the sunroom door when Barrett says, “Your son will be fine. Children are resilient.”
From experience, Hiram knows they’re not. Not always. He nods anyway.
On the table by the door, he spots an envelope with his name on it and picks it up. There’s no sender information. Hiram holds it up, frowning. “Where did this come from?”
“It was on the front step. Charlotte brought it in.”
Curious, Hiram opens the envelope and unfolds the letter. The penmanship is neat and straight, despite the lack of lines. He scans the page, confused. There are only two words:
BeeyardS rain.
Dinner is a failure.
Antaris picks at everything on his plate with a pointed frown, leaving most behind in favor of sitting in the center of the empty deck in pajamas and wild, curly hair, flipping through one of Hiram’s old lawbooks.
He must have hauled it from the living room bookcase without Hiram noticing.
It’s humid after the earlier rain. Dusk, but not dark enough for the deck lights to come on.
Crickets chirp. Water laps against the shore of the lake.
At first, Antaris doesn’t hear Hiram approach, but soon his cursory glance becomes a stare.
“May I join you?”
A small shrug is the only reply before Antaris resumes flipping the pages.
“Do you want me to read it to you?”
Antaris quickly nods. It’s not much, but he’ll take it.
Hiram sits, noting the way Antaris tenses when he gets too close.
He shifts slightly, creating space. Only then does his son relax.
Both encouraged and disheartened, Hiram pushes aside his feelings and tells the kid-friendly version of the last case he used this book to win.
For a time, Hiram has Antaris’s undivided attention.
He recounts the case of a Seer accused of kidnapping their own child, a claim made by their spouse’s bigoted family.
The case seemed unwinnable, with the family testifying that their Seer nature made them a danger to their child.
But Hiram found an amended law in that book, allowing him to interview the child privately; that testimony ultimately changed the outcome.
In retrospect, it’s a boring story full of legal jargon Antaris won’t understand.
Still, having his attention feels incredible until the story concludes.
That’s when the lights go out in Antaris’s eyes.
He retreats, staring blankly at the pages, while Hiram crashes from the high of a rare normal moment between them.
He waits in the never-ending silence, but nothing changes. This is the end of the road for today.
Hiram showers, trying to ignore his mounting frustration.
It is progress, he tells himself, but the chasm between them feels deeper than ever.
He’s hyperaware of how badly he wants to close the distance before it’s too late.
When he returns, changed and dried, Antaris still sits on the deck. Ready for their nightly ritual.
Antaris wanders every night. When anxious, they’re out here for hours.
When upset, he sobs while Hiram looks on, helpless, unable to soothe the root of his sadness.
When withdrawn, he wraps himself in a blanket that covers everything except his eyes.
Hiram has several theories about the source of his son’s nocturnal wanderings, but none of them are comforting.
The worst scream at him when Antaris starts looking.
Under the deck. Around the bushes and trees.
Behind the trash bins. Out over the water.
Searching. It’s as if he’s trying to find what’s missing. His mother.
Hiram knows the wandering is ending when Antaris slows enough for him to catch up. Each night, Hiram offers his hand. Each time, it’s met with hesitation, never acceptance.
Back inside, Hiram checks his trip itinerary, folding it neatly.
The earlier conversation with his dad lingers as he knocks on Antaris’s bedroom door.
Antaris is already in bed, squeezing a battered stuffed rabbit, cotton spilling out, one ear gone, a button eye barely holding on.
He won’t let anyone fix the unfortunate thing. Hiram stopped trying two weeks ago.
Tonight, he offers the folded piece of paper. Antaris looks confused, but Hiram nudges him to take it. “It’s for you.”
Antaris unfolds the note, blinking at the paper.
“While you’re at school, I’ll be away. I’m flying to Los Angeles to finish a few things. This is when I leave, and when I will return. You can keep track of me with this, and I’ll know where you are because of a spell I cast on it.”
To Hiram’s shock, Antaris reacts. Face flushed, breathing ragged, he hyperventilates as the hands of the clock on his nightstand spin wildly—a warning of an imminent magical accident. Hiram hesitates twice, then rests his hand on the bed.
“I’m coming back.”
He has to say it three times before Antaris lifts his head, still on the verge of tears.
“I promise.”