Chapter 8
Eight
THEN | SISK
Something about this feels doomed from the start.
“Okay,” I say, cracking my neck the way Helen makes us do before rehearsals. “Let’s go over what we know.”
Jax is sprawled across his bed, tossing a coin and letting it roll over his knuckles.
The room matches him—lived-in, arrogantly rich.
Bigger than my entire living room. Everything here is nicer than anything in my place; even his trash can is full of name-brand snack wrappers I used to stare at in the grocery aisle before putting back.
We don’t even buy cookies at my house. Millie makes everything from scratch because paying for the store-bought versions is “a luxury for other people.”
Ivan is on the floor, notebook open on his legs, looking like he might throw up on it.
His glasses slide down his nose every few seconds, he keeps pushing them up with the back of his wrist like he’s afraid to touch his fingers to anything.
He’s wearing a band T-shirt that says The Screaming Possums, which might be a real group but definitely not one anyone would brag about unless they’d given up on caring what other people think.
“All that matters is that I’m cursed,” Ivan blurts, standing so fast his pencil falls.
“Pitfire,” Jax curses, sitting up. “Can you calm down for two seconds?”
Ivan’s eyes widen. “You think this is—a joke?”
Jax snorts. “To be honest, how do we know you’re not just… I don’t know… playing us?”
“What?” Ivan looks at me urgently, like I’m the referee in a fight he didn’t ask to join.
“Jax,” I warn. “You said you’d listen.”
“Hey, you’re in my room. My house. Why the hell would I offer it if I wasn’t going to listen?”
He has a point. A rude point, but a point. I exhale. “Ivan, start from the beginning. Slowly.”
Ivan nods—shaky, but trying. “Well… everyone knows the rule. The stories. Whoever bargains with the Pit pays a price.”
“You two seriously believe this fantasy?” I ask, rubbing my temples.
Ivan shakes his head. “It’s not fantasy. My dad brings case files home. I’ve read things—things nobody at school likes to talk about. People disappear near it. People hear… voices.”
Jax flicks the coin toward Ivan like bait. Ivan makes a panicked grab for it—misses—his fingers smacking the air as the coin clatters across the floor.
Jax crosses his arms, pleased with himself. “The old rumor says if you toss in money, it’ll hiss at you.”
“That’s just Tar City urban legend,” I argue. “People here make up stories the way other towns make bake sales. I even heard someone say you can feed it a secret. It’s all nonsense.”
Ivan’s voice darkens. “Not all of it.”
Jax leans forward. “Okay, even if this is real—which I’m not admitting—” he points at Ivan, “you’re gonna have to prove you’re not doing this for attention.”
Ivan stares at him. “Attention?”
“Oh, please,” Jax says. “Like you don’t stare at Sisk like she hung the moon and the stars and the whole damn constellation map.”
I shift, heat climbing up my neck. “Jax—”
Ivan’s face goes violently red. “That’s not—I’m not—I don’t care if you believe me. I’m not lying.”
He steps back like he’s about to walk out.
“Wait.” I grab his sleeve. “Ivan, sit down, please.”
He sits.
Jax sighs. “Look, you clearly know more about this lore shit than we do. Catch me up. Pretend I’m the idiot here.”
“I don’t need to pretend,” Ivan mutters.
Jax cracks his knuckles and grins. “You wound me.”
“You are not helping, Ivan,” I snap.
Ivan exhales shakily. “Okay. The rumor is… if someone bargains with the Pit—if they give blood, bones, a life—it listens. It gives them what they want, but it leaves a mark. A shame mark.”
He looks down at his stained fingers.
Jax rolls his eyes, but Ivan keeps going, voice tightening: “You know that old guy who sells lotto tickets outside the train station down by The Cut? The one with the bandages on his hands?” His voice thins.
“Dad said he wasn’t always homeless. Years ago, he made a wish—his wife was terminal.
She recovered. Completely.” He swallows.
“And two months later… she drowned in her bathtub. No explanation. People say she found out who he offered in exchange. A child. Easy to take, I guess.”
I look at them and notice how Jax shifts his position on the bed.
Ivan’s voice falters. “Kids say he’s the one with the disease now. And that he’s still looking for a replacement.”
I inhale sharply. “Ivan, you don’t actually believe that, do you?”
“The girl from the tape,” Ivan whispers. “Her fingers. Black. Just like mine.”
“This is ridiculous,” I say, colder than I mean to. “A cursed Tar Pit that grants wishes? Please. This town would sell its grandmother for a discount lottery ticket. You don’t need a demon hole to get fucked over—you just need to live here long enough.”
Jax huffs under his breath. “It’s all fucked up, I’ll give you that.”
I turn my back to him and face Ivan instead. “Ivan… was the silver nitrate flask labeled?”
His face drains of color, and he swallows and shakes his head.
“And I’m the idiot,” Jax mutters.
“Silver nitrate for darkroom work comes in those dark brown bottles. I recognized the bottle, but it should have been thin, clear, basically odorless. What I used… it wasn’t.
It was thicker, cloudier, and the stench—” He shakes his head.
“It was wrong, and by the time I noticed, it had already spilled on my fingers.”
He cuts himself off and I feel my stomach twist regardless of reason.
His hands tremble. “I thought I knew what it was,” he says. “I mean… the stains made sense too. Silver nitrate stains. But—”
The room goes dead quiet.
“It all made sense until…” he murmurs.
“Until the voices started?” I ask.
He nods. “Yeah.”
“Did you bring it up to your dad?” I ask.
“Of course not. You don’t know what he’s like.”
“Yeah. Detective Hardass. Guy once yelled at me for breathing too loud in his doorway,” says Jax.
Ivan glares.
“Maybe your dad could check Ivan?” I offer gently to Jax.
“I DON’T need a doctor!” Ivan shouts. “I’m not crazy. The voice—I heard it. I know I did. It was real.”
“I understand you think it was real, Ivan, but—”
“You know what?” Ivan snaps, pushing to his feet. “Forget I told you anything.”
He grabs his backpack and heads for the door.
“Yeah, okay,” Jax says, watching him go. “Him storming out is becoming a thing.”
The door shuts.
I bring my hands to my face, dragging them down slowly. “What is wrong with him?”
Jax steps over the books Ivan dropped and moves back toward his desk like nothing happened, picking up a lighter and flipping it open, then shut.
“Your friend’s kind of messed up.”
I glance at him. “Guess you don’t know much about friendship.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “I have standards.”
“Wow.”
He looks up at me, one brow lifting slightly, like he’s waiting to see what I do with that. “Kidding.”
“You’re not.”
“I am,” he says, easy. “We could move past friends if you want.”
I straighten immediately. “What?”
He shrugs, barely holding back a smile. “I don’t know. Friends with benefits. Keep things interesting.”
I stare at him. “You’re unbelievable.”
He watches me, shaking his head. “You really don’t take jokes well.”
“That was not a joke.”
“Yeah, it was,” he says, still amused. “Relax.”
I cross my arms. “This whole thing is weird. Your sudden interest in the poor ballerina and the crazy nerd is a little hard to believe.”
“I’m not a jackass.”
“I didn’t say that, but—”
“You were about to.”
I hesitate. “You just don’t seem like the type.”
He straightens slightly, attention locking in now. “What type is that?”
I immediately regret saying anything. “Nothing. Forget it.”
“No,” he says, calm. “Go ahead.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re going to twist it.”
“I’m listening.”
I exhale. “You don’t seem like the kind of person who—” I gesture vaguely around his room, the space, him. “Does this.”
“Talks to you?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
He tilts his head slightly. “Then what did you mean?”
I look away, then back at him. “I don’t know.”
“You think I’m too rich to be friends with you or something?”
“I didn’t say that,” I say quickly.
“You didn’t have to.”
“That’s not—” I stop, frustrated. “You're impossible to talk to.”
He smiles a little at that. “And yet,” he says, “you’re still here.”
“I’m leaving.”
I move for the door, but he’s quicker. For a moment, I think he’s going to stop me. He doesn’t. He reaches past me and opens it, stepping back. “Still a gentleman,” he says, a hint of a smile there.
I brush past him stepping into the hallway. “Ass.”
“Careful. You might start liking me.”
* * *
“Where’s Ivan?” I ask Jax, scanning the platform for a nervous kid in a terrible band T-shirt. Not a kid. Ivan is my age—he just looks younger. I remind myself. Acts younger. Next to Jax, he might as well be a kid.
Jax shrugs, hands deep in the pockets of his leather jacket. “He’s not coming.”
I glance down the length of the platform again, like he might appear last minute, half-running, already apologizing. Nothing.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” Jax says.
I look back at him. “Did he tell you?”
“No.”
“Then how do you—”
“Because he is probably freaking out,” Jax says, like it’s obvious. “We’re going to The Cut.”
I frown. “So?”
He gives me a look. “So Ivan’s not exactly built for dark alleys, ash dealers, and whatever the hell else crawls around down there.”
“Wow. You are a jackass.”
“I’m just stating facts,” he says. “I can’t even blame him. The Cut isn’t exactly where nervous little science nerds go for fun.”
I narrow my eyes. “You know, for someone who claims not to care, you talk about him a lot.”
“You always argue this much, or just with me?”
“Just when people act like they’re right all the time.”
“I am right.”
I frown at him. “Okay, so—”
“Just the two of us then,” he says, like he’s been waiting to say it.
I look at him. “You say that like it’s good news.”
He lifts one shoulder. “Depends who you ask.”
I fold my arms. “Let’s get this over with.”
His mouth twitches. “Yeah, sounds like a great time.”
I glare at him.
A train passes on the far track, loud enough to shake the platform. My hair lifts slightly in the rush of air before settling again. I glance down the platform one more time, then back at him. “We could… do this another day. When Ivan can come.”
Jax looks at me like he’s deciding how seriously to take that. “Or we don’t wait,” he says. “The sooner we get answers, the sooner you can help your friend.”
I hesitate. I look away, toward the tracks. “You don’t even believe he needs help.”
Jax looks at me. “You don’t either.”
“Then why are you here?”
He holds my gaze. “You asked. That’s what friends are for.”
I scoff. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Yeah,” he says easily. “You’ve mentioned.”
I shake my head, already annoyed with myself.
The train starts pulling in with the brakes screaming.
Everyone else crowds forward, pressing closer to the edge, but Jax stays completely still.
“Hurry up,” I say, pushing past him and onto the train.
Inside, the car is already packed. I grab the metal pole automatically, shifting to make space as people rearrange themselves around us. Jax just stands there. No pole. No wall. No anything.
I blink at him. “You’re not even going to pretend you know how this works?”
He looks at me like I just insulted him. “I know how a train works.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
The train jerks forward and Jax immediately loses his balance. His hand shoots out, missing the pole completely, brushing my shoulder before catching my arm. I stumble into him, his eyes flick down, quick, like he didn’t mean to—but he did.
I raise an eyebrow. “You definitely don’t take the train.”
He clears his throat. “My parents send a car.”
“A car,” I repeat. “Like… every day?”
“Yes.”
I stare at him. “That’s insane.”
He shrugs. “Ronny drives me.”
“Ronny,” I echo. “Your chauffeur has a name.”
“Why wouldn’t he?” Jax says. “He’s known me since I was two.”
I shake my head. “I’ve never even been in a car with AC.”
He looks like he wants to say something to that, then the train shifts again.
There’s a sudden shove and the crowd presses in.
Someone bumps me hard, and my foot slips as the train lurches and I pitch sideways.
Jax catches me instantly—this time with both hands, one on my waist, one around my wrist, pulling me tight into his chest so fast it knocks the breath out of me.
The world becomes his heartbeat slamming against mine.
“You okay?” he asks, voice lower now.
“Yes,” I breathe—except it sounds nothing like a yes.
We stay like that for a beat too long, then he adjusts his grip slightly and the movement sends a sharp, unexpected reaction up my arm.
I pull back just enough to meet his eyes and I notice that he’s already looking at me.
For one impossible moment, nothing exists beyond his eyes.
I don’t know how long it lasts because next thing I know the train screeches to a stop at our station.
I swallow. “We should… go.”
“Yeah.”
Before he lets go, his thumb drags once—slowly—down the inside of my wrist. A tiny absolutely devastating touch.