Chapter 6
Six
THEN | SISK
Jax catches my arm right as I’m about to slip out the side doors.
“What are you doing?” I snap, twisting out of his grip.
“I need to talk to you.”
“Then talk.”
We’re right by the exit, people brushing past behind him, doors opening and closing. He glances over his shoulder, like he doesn’t want an audience.
“Kinda hard to get you alone these days.”
I frown. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Ivan,” he says, already irritated. “He’s glued to you. Tell me you haven’t noticed.”
“We’re friends, Jax. And it’s usually just lunch. You don’t have to make it weird.”
“Whatever.” He runs a hand through his hair, pacing like he’s trying not to say something worse. “Look… I think you should be careful with him.”
That makes me pause. “What? Why?”
He looks at me then, really looks, like he's trying to decide how much to say. Up close, his eyes are stupidly blue. There's a small cut on his lip I hadn't noticed before, like he got it recently. I need to stop staring.
“His fingers.”
I blink. “His—what?”
“The black stains,” he says, quieter now. “Same as the girl in the video.”
“You think—”
“Too much of a coincidence, don’t you think?”
“He told us what caused it,” I say. “The chemical. Silver—something. Maybe the girl—”
“Stop covering for him.” His voice cuts in, low and sharp. “He lied.”
I press my lips together, heat creeping up my neck.
“All of it is shady as hell.”
I cross my arms. “Ivan is nice. Maybe if you actually tried getting to know him, you’d see that.”
Jax takes a step toward me. “Just—”
We're staring at each other, and then out of nowhere, his hand comes up and brushes some hair off my face.
I freeze. “What are you doing?” I snap, stepping back and knocking his hand away.
His hand drops like it didn’t mean anything. “You had—”
“I’m not asking you to fix it,” I cut in. “If you want answers about his fingers, go ask him,” I say. “I don’t think he lied.”
He exhales, frustrated, dragging his hand over the back of his neck. “Just be careful,” he says as I turn away.
I make it a few steps before I stop and turn back. “I don’t need to be.” My voice carries, and I see a couple people turn their heads.
I turn again, pushing through the doors, but the feeling follows me outside, clinging in a way I can’t shake.
Because now I can’t stop thinking about it.
Since when does Jax St. Clair go out of his way to talk to me?
And even stranger—since when does he care who I spend my time with? Or whether I’m being careful?
* * *
The next day at lunch, I find Ivan exactly where he always sits—far corner of the cafeteria, back to the wall, a fortress of books forming a half-circle around his tray. I didn’t mean to start sitting with him. I simply couldn’t stand the way no one else ever did.
“What’s all this for?” I ask.
Ivan barely glances up from the stack of brittle books he’s sorting through. “Research.”
“On what?” I pick one up.
“Tar,” he says simply.
I raise a brow. “Oh. That again.”
He shakes his head. “Listen to this: Real tar isn’t for roads.
It’s a byproduct. Natural tar forms when organic material decomposes underground without oxygen.
Plants, animals… time does the rest. It’s thick, slow and predictable.
” He taps a photo in the book, and I see a glossy black pool of tar trapped between layers of rock.
“Okay,” I say, still not seeing the point.
Ivan slides another book toward me—this one open to a diagram he’s drawn himself. The Pit. Our Pit.
“That’s what’s bothering me,” he murmurs. “Real tar is made of carbon, oil residues, and decayed organic matter. It reacts to heat and pressure. It doesn’t…”
I yawn.
He nods, eyes flicking toward the floor. “What we have down there isn’t passive. It doesn’t wait. It reacts and bubbles when nothing touches it.”
A tight, involuntary chill crawls up my spine. “How do you know?”
His voice lowers. “Real tar can preserve bones for ten thousand years. But the stuff in the pit?” He points to frantic handwritten notes in the margin:
NO BONE REMAINS. ALL ORGANIC MATTER CONSUMED.
“Real tar preserves,” he whispers. “The Tar City Pit doesn’t.”
I look at him. “What’s the name of that stuff again?” I ask, sliding into the seat across from him. “The thing that stained your fingers?”
He closes a book quickly. “Silver nitrate.”
The stains are darker today, almost sunk deeper into the skin.
“Do you think the girl…” I lower my voice, “the one from the tape… touched that too? Silver nitrate?”
He looks at me. “Hard to tell,” he mumbles. “But the coincidence is driving me insane.”
“It’s driving Jax insane too,” I say before thinking.
Ivan stills. “What do you mean?”
“He mentioned it.”
“You talk to him?”
“Not much.”
He pulls a folded sheet of notes from between the pages of a book and offers it. “Want to help?”
“With what?”
He hands me an old book with a cracked spine and margins filled with handwriting notes.
“Sorry, Ivan, I have to practice. Auditions, remember?” I stand, realizing how late it’s gotten.
“That’s okay,” he says, but his voice dips in disappointment.
“We can… talk about it another time,” I say, softening. “You can tell me your theories, looks like you have a bunch of them.”
He folds the notes slowly. “Sure.”
I sling my bag over my shoulder.
“Can I watch you?”
I stop moving. “What?”
“Practice,” he clarifies quickly. “Dance.”
“Oh.”
“I won’t distract you.” He stacks the books into a neat tower. “I’ll bring my research.”
There’s a tiny smile at the corner of his mouth—not too shy this time.
“I… guess,” I say.
His smile grows and for some reason, it makes the hair on my arms stand up.
* * *
I can’t believe it’s almost audition day. Am I ready? Of course you’re ready. I tell myself that twice—once like a coach, once like an order—but the doubt still flutters under my ribs.
I daydream through the hallway anyway, letting the fantasy pull me along: me on stage, lights burning gold across my skin, music swelling, the panel whispering yes before I’m even done.
A future where all of this—Tar City, the train rides, the fear—isn’t my whole world anymore.
I cling to that for one more breath, then I open the door to the dance room.
It's dark, empty, and silent, and relief washes over me—finally, a moment alone.
I can still feel how awkward it was a few days ago with Ivan sitting in the corner watching. I pretended it was fine, but it wasn’t. It was just… weird. I ended up saying I needed to rest before I got injured and cut practice short.
Lou—my closest friend, mostly because we spend half our time fighting over who gets what part in routines and the rest arguing over studio time—would’ve made a joke out of it in five seconds. He usually does. I even told him I needed to practice alone today. I’m purely not in the mood for people.
I flip the light switch.
“Sisk.”
I jump so violently I trip over a chair. Jax is sitting on the floor by the mirrors, one knee bent, like he’s been there for a while. “What are you doing here?” I gasp.
“Waiting for you.”
“In the dark?”
He shrugs. “Wanted to surprise you.”
I glare. “You mean give me a heart attack.”
He gets up and walks toward me, close enough that I instinctively step back, my shoulder hitting the mirror.
“What are you—”
My words cut off when his hand closes around mine. I feel it immediately—the warmth of his hand, the pressure of it—and for a moment, I forget what I was about to say.
I look down at where he’s holding me then he turns my hand over, like that’s all he meant to do, and slides something into my palm.
“Look.”
The moment slips. I blink and look down at the folded newspaper clipping in my hand, my fingers closing around it automatically. I pull back more annoyed than I should be.
The paper is brittle with age. My stomach twists before I even finish unfolding it, and I don’t think it has anything to do with the article.
A black-and-white photo of a girl. The girl. The same one from the tape.
My throat tightens. “Where did you get this?”
“The library.”
I blink. “You went to the library?”
He shrugs. “I go there sometimes, actually. I—” He stops, cutting himself off, like he said too much.
His expression changes, his taunting grin slides back into place like nothing happened.
“You should’ve seen Ms. Rowan’s face,” he says. “She genuinely thought I was possessed. I asked for archived newspapers and she nearly cried when she realized I wasn’t there for detention.”
I stare at him thrown, maybe there’s more to him than the rumors.
I look back down at the paper and force myself to read the text:
LOCAL SENIOR MISSING AFTER SCHOOL DANCE
By Staff Reporter
Cynthia Fowler, 17, a senior at St. Clair High School, was reported missing late Saturday night following the school’s annual dance.
According to school officials, Fowler was last seen around 10:45 p.m. near the hallway leading to the girls’ restroom.
Several students reported that she appeared “upset” or “unwell” shortly before she disappeared.
Friends told authorities that Fowler had briefly left the dance floor but never returned.
Her personal belongings, including her purse and coat, were later found inside the school.
There were no signs of forced exit, and staff confirmed that all main doors remained monitored throughout the evening.
Police have stated that the circumstances surrounding Fowler’s disappearance are “unusual” and are asking anyone with information to come forward.
As of Sunday afternoon, search efforts are ongoing.
“Okay, so… this is the girl from the tape?” I ask.
“I think so,” he answers.
I look at the photo again. “So what does this mean?”
“That those stains are important,” he says quietly. “You see it now.”
I exhale.
“That means…” he steps close enough that I can smell the minty gum he’s chewing.
“Ivan?” I ask.
“Probably shouldn’t be trusted.”
“You don’t even know him.”
“I know enough,” he says. “You really don’t see it.”
“See what?”
I have to tilt my head slightly to keep looking at him.
“That something’s off with him,” he says, quieter now. “And you’re just… standing next to him like it’s nothing.”
I let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Since when do you care who I stand next to? You don’t know me either.”
“I’m just telling you to pay attention,” he says.
My grip tightens on the paper. “Fine.”
I drop my gaze back to the article, more to avoid looking at him than anything else.
Behind us, the door creaks and I turn.
Ivan is standing in the doorway, a stack of books clutched to his chest as he watches us.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
He shifts his grip on the books. “I… came to watch,” he says softly. “Again.”
Jax’s posture goes rigid.
“Ivan,” I say carefully. “I need privacy to practice, okay?”
“Oh.” His shoulders dip, face flushing. “Sorry. I—I didn’t mean—I just thought—” He stops mid-sentence when he sees the clipping in my hand. He moves closer and his glasses slide slightly down his nose as he leans in.
“Is that…?” His voice lowers. “…her?”
Jax steps subtly between us. Ivan’s eyes dart from the picture… to Jax… to me—then the books slide out of his grip, his mind clearly somewhere else.
“I didn’t know you two were… talking,” he says, stepping over them.
“We’re friends,” Jax snaps.
Ivan barely reacts, his attention is already back on the clipping. “Can I see it?” he asks, holding out his hand.
I hesitate, then pass it to him.
Jax watches my hands like he wants to snatch it back.
Ivan scans it quickly. “This is—this is the same girl. This has to be the same girl.”
Jax doesn’t wait. “What stained your fingers?” he demands.
Ivan stiffens. “I told you! Silver nitrate.”
“You think I’m dumb?” Jax steps closer. “I might not be a straight A student, but I’m not stupid.”
Ivan backs up a little. “It was silver nitrate. I—I needed it for—”
“For what?” Jax cuts in, moving closer to Ivan.
Ivan trembles. “I—Just let me—”
“What?” Jax says, giving his shoulder a short shove—but his hand doesn’t leave. His fingers stay there, gripping enough to keep Ivan where he is. “Say it.”
“Jax, stop,” I say quickly, stepping between them. “You’re scaring him.”
“He should be scared,” Jax growls.
“I swear!” Ivan blurts.
We both freeze.
He swallows hard, voice cracking. “I swear I thought it was silver nitrate… I swear I thought the reaction was normal but… but now…” His breath shakes.
“Now I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.
” He looks at me—not Jax. His eyes are wide.
“You have to help me,” he whispers. “If it was tar—if it’s really tar—if it’s cursed—then I’m already—” He chokes on the rest.
Jax’s hand drops.
Ivan stares down at his fingers; they are raw around the nails, as if he's been gnawing at them all day, or picking at the skin until it bled. The stains are still there, dark under the raw, broken skin.
“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he whispers. “And I don’t know how to stop it.”