Chapter 10
Ten
THEN | SISK
The second we step onto the street, I regret this. There’s a reason people stay away from this part of Tar City. And it isn’t just the proximity to The Pit; it’s the people.
I could probably walk through here without drawing much attention, but the boy walking beside me screams money—shiny new sneakers, a leather jacket that hasn’t seen real wear, a posture that says he still believes in safety. I can tell he hasn’t seen this city at its worst.
“Maybe we should go back,” I whisper as two men on the corner look us up and down like we’re dinner.
Jax shrugs, too calm for this place. “It’s up to you… but we can be quick.”
“Fine. Hide your watch.”
“What?”
“Jax.” I stop and look him dead in the eye. “People here kill for a lot less. Do it.”
He hesitates, like he doesn’t fully believe me, but then he pulls the watch off and shoves it into his front pocket.
“Okay,” I breathe. “According to Ivan, this man should be somewhere around this area.”
Jax glances around, taking it in for the first time. “Have you ever been here? To the Cut?”
“Yeah, but not often. Sometimes we come out this way if we need something and someone’s selling it dirt cheap. In and out.”
“Where do you live?”
I blink, realizing how little he knows about me. “South side.”
Jax goes quiet, recalibrating. “Your parents work there?” he asks, a little less casual now.
“My dad works at The Backlot Grill. He’s on the line—mostly grill and fryers. And my mom…” I swallow. “She’s sick.”
His expression softens immediately. “I’m sorry, Sisk.”
I nod, pushing it down before it can turn into something bigger.
This is not the place for feelings. We keep walking deeper.
The streets narrow, the buildings packed so tightly together it feels like the air is being squeezed out of the space.
The windows are boarded up, and I notice how the graffiti shifts from sloppy tagging to symbols I don’t recognize.
We pass a man sitting on a crate, muttering at the sky. Silver necklaces hang from every finger of his, clinking when his hands twitch. His eyes roll white as we pass. “THE PIT KNOWS YOUR NAME,” he croaks. “THE PIT HUNGERS. THE PIT—”
“Keep moving,” I whisper.
The Cut isn’t really a neighborhood; it’s what’s left of the old mining quarter. We learned about it in school—one of those lectures everyone tunes out—but I remember enough. Tar City used to be a mining town before it became… this.
The first workers lived here, back when the city was barely a dot on a map.
They dug too deep, pressure built and the tunnels collapsed.
Toxic runoff leaked into the groundwater, and people started getting sick.
The pit opened around then too, right under those same tunnels.
No one calls that a coincidence. Families moved out and the district was condemned.
And now The Cut is just the bones left behind—rotting worker houses, broken processing buildings, and a few shops still hanging on.
I understand why they tell everyone to stay away.
Even the cops avoid this place, and because of that, it belongs to the kind of people who don’t worry about consequences.
I try not to look at the figures lurking in doorways. A fight breaks out across the street but of course, no one intervenes.
“Ivan said the old man would be here,” I say, pointing toward a stack of milk crates beside a burned-out storefront.
The spot is empty, all that’s left is a dented metal bucket and a cardboard sign that reads:
LOTTO TICKETS HERE.
BETTER ODDS THAN TAR CITY.
Voices rise behind us and my blood goes cold. “Split up! Cut them off!”
“Run,” I order Jax.
We sprint as someone shouts behind us—laughter or a threat, I can’t tell.
A bottle shatters somewhere too close, and I don’t look back.
We turn into a narrow alley and dive behind a dumpster, my breath tearing through my lungs.
The voices follow us and when I open my mouth to scream, Jax’s hand comes up and clamps over it.
His body cages me against the wall, chest pressed to mine, heat, fear and adrenaline mixing into something dizzying.
“Don’t move,” he whispers.
The footsteps slow to a stop. “Where’d they go?” “I saw the girl—pretty—’round here.” A laugh. “Bet the fancy boy’s showing her a real good time.” Someone coughs. Another voice calls, “Make her your whore!”
My heart slams against my ribs and Jax’s hand tightens on me.
His fingers slide from my mouth to my hair, tilting my head—and his mouth is on mine.
It isn’t a kiss. Not really. Not supposed to be.
It’s camouflage, a performance, but my lips part anyway.
His other hand closes around my arm, steady and warm, his body shielding mine completely, and for one terrifying second, I forget where we are.
The footsteps pass, the voices fade, and the alley goes quiet. Jax pulls back first, his breath is still on my lips when he murmurs, “I’m sorry, that was just to get them to leave.”
I nod and pretend my knees didn’t go weak. Pretend my whole body isn’t alert. Pretend I’m not disappointed to hear him apologize for it.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Of course. I know.”
Although his eyes tell me he felt it too.
I’m still pressed against the wall, breath tangled with his, when—a metal door slams open across the alley.
“HEY! You two!”
A man leans out, wild gray hair sticking up like he’s been electrocuted. He squints at us, then his expression sharpens. “Get in.”
We freeze.
“St. Clair?” he rasps.
Jax stiffens beside me.
The man’s face drains of color. He glances up and down the alley like he’s checking for real problems.
“You shouldn’t be walking these parts,” he hisses. “Get in. Now!”
Jax opens his mouth. “We’re fine—”
“No. You’re bloody not.” The man jerks his head toward the open door. “In. Before someone notices you breathing.”
We exchange a quick look. The alley is not safe. The men could come back, and somehow, this stranger knowing Jax’s name feels like both a warning and a lifeline.
I swallow. “Jax,” I whisper. “We should…”
He hesitates for a breath—but it’s real fear. He grabs my hand and pulls me inside.
The man slams the door behind us, bolts it twice, then yanks down a metal grate with a screech that echoes through the space.
I look around, noticing it’s an old pawn shop. The shelves sag under the weight of forgotten things: cracked music boxes, rusted knives, unlit lanterns, wallets with IDs still inside.
Jax exhales under his breath. “What the hell is this place?”
The man shoots him a look. “This?” He pats the cluttered counter. “This is where the city dumps its cursed crap. And where idiots like you come when they think The Pit is something to play with.”
He turns away, already muttering to himself as he moves behind the counter. He grabs a small wooden box, flips it open and I almost let out a scream.
Teeth. Dozens of them. Yellowed, uneven, some still dark at the root. The man doesn’t react. He picks one up, inspects it like it’s defective merchandise, then drops it back with a soft clatter. “Murtaugh needs to stop bringing me this shit…” He snaps the lid shut and shoves the box into a drawer.
He lifts his eyes to Jax and wipes his hands on his shirt. “What are you doing in these parts, St. Clair?”
Jax’s face goes cold. “I don’t know you.”
“Yeah,” the man grumbles, “You’re a St. Clair, no? You look a lot like him.”
I turn to Jax.
“I am,” he replies.
The man studies him a moment longer, then exhales. “You’re lucky I opened that door. Another minute out there, The Cut would’ve skinned you alive.”
“We’re looking for someone,” I say.
The man barks out a laugh. “Of course you are. Let me guess—a dare? School project?”
He steps closer, eyes flicking between us, measuring.
I swallow. “The lottery ticket man, the one whose wife… We just need to ask him a few questions.”
The man snorts so hard it sounds like he’s choking. “Stupid kids.”
My hands sweat, but I push through. “We want to know…” My voice drags. “…about the voices.”
The old man stops mid-turn and looks at us again. “What did you just say?”
Jax shifts. “We didn’t hear them. We know someone who did.”
I nod quickly. “A girl, about twenty years ago. We’re trying to figure out what happened to her.”
The man swears under his breath again, dragging a hand over his face. “You should leave it alone, nothing good comes from those questions.”
“Do you know?” I press, forcing myself to stay steady. “You must talk to a lot of people. You’re this close to the pit… have you heard anything? I know how this sounds, but—we need to know.”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he yanks open a drawer and pulls out a small knife with a bone handle, slamming it onto the counter. “Take it.”
Jax frowns. “What?”
“You’re going back out there,” the man snaps. “So take it.”
Jax hesitates, then picks it up. “How do you know my family?”
The man leans in, breath reeking like alcohol. “Ask your grandfather.”
Before I can say anything else, he grabs my arm and drags us toward the back of the shop. “Come on. I don’t have all night. And neither do you.”
He pauses once, glancing toward the front door like he’s listening for something, then moves faster. He flips a latch, shoves a heavy crate aside, and reveals a hidden metal hatch in the floor, scarred and locked with multiple mechanisms.
“This leads to the old sanitation tunnels,” he says. “Safer than the streets. It’ll take you two miles north, right at the train station.”
Jax swallows. “Why are you helping us?”
The man glares at him. “Call it paying an old debt.”
He pulls the hatch open. The reek hits me hard. “Down you go. Don’t stop for anything. You’ll see an exit about two miles ahead.” He nods at the knife. “Stick with the pointy end.”
I shiver as we climb down. The ladder groans beneath us, the light above shrinks as we descend, the hatch slams shut and the tunnel swallows us whole.