Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
THEN | JAX
Do I want to kill him? Not exactly. Still, I want to break something of his. Maybe his confidence. Maybe his nose. Haven’t decided yet. Do I know the exact reason? Not really. It’s more of a gut thing.
It could be because he asked her first. Because he has this whole routine, the careful, self-effacing “please” that makes people soften before they even know what they’re agreeing to. It’s a good move. I’ll give him that.
Mostly, it’s because he gets her to do whatever he wants with that helpless face of his.
I don’t buy it for a second. Ivan’s a smart kid.
A nerd? Sure. But smart. He knows Sisk is too kind to say no, and he knows exactly how to work that angle.
That alone is reason enough to want to knock him off his game.
Still—it’s not just him. It’s her. The fact that she’s leaving.
I want to say I’m happy for her. I want to be the kind of guy who smiles and says “you deserve it” and actually means it.
But the truth is, I want to personally derail anything and everything that’s putting distance between us.
And this feeling—this helpless, off-balance, gut-twisting feeling—is new to me.
And the worse part? It's all my fucking fault.
All this time she's just been... there. Just right there.
I'd see her in the halls, in class, whatever, but I never really looked.
Then detention happens, and it's like someone flipped a switch, and now I'm replaying everything in my head like a moron, seeing all these moments I just walked past. All this time I wasted.
Makes me feel like a complete idiot. How do you not notice someone who's right in front of your face for years?
That's a special kind of stupid, right there.
Do I have to let her go? Of course. Can I?
That’s the part I can’t stop thinking about.
Because if I had it my way—and yeah, I’m used to getting my way—she wouldn’t be going anywhere.
She’d be here. With me. The more I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that I’m just bored, that she’ll leave and I’ll move on, the more I realize I’m already past the point of pretending this is just a passing thing.
If Ivan is hiding something—if there’s even a chance he’s not who she thinks he is—I need to know before senior night. Before I have to watch her dance with someone else and pretend like it doesn’t bother me.
I push through the door and remind myself to stick to the plan.
Mr. Halpern is hunched over his desk, shoulders rounded like the weight of the room is pressing him downward. Papers are spread everywhere—graded essays, photocopied handouts, a coffee cup ringed with dried brown stains.
His tie is loosened, the knot dragged down like he’s been tugging at it all morning.
I cough to get his attention.
“Ah—” He straightens quickly, shuffling the papers into a pile. “St. Clair. Right on time.” He gestures to the chair across from his desk. “Take a seat. You asked for a… review of your paper, wasn’t it?”
I sit and stretch my legs out a little too far and make myself comfortable. “Yes, sir.”
He adjusts his glasses, glancing down. “I have to say, a B-minus may have been a bit harsh. Your argument was—well—surprisingly nuanced.”
And there it is: the lie. People don’t try to impress me, they try to impress the St. Clair name. It’s the kind of ass-kissing that makes me want to flip this damn desk. I couldn’t stand it more if I tried.
“I appreciate that,” I say easily. “I was hoping you’d see it that way.”
He smiles, relieved, and launches into another boring monologue. He rambles on about structure and sources and my so-called potential. I nod along like I give a shit, letting him think this little meeting is a victory for him. I don’t care about the grade, I came here for a memory.
“So,” I cut in, when he finally comes up for air. “You’ve been teaching here a long time, right?”
His smile tightens. “Yes. Longer than I sometimes care to admit.”
“You ever feel like this town is just a broken record?” I ask. “Same stories. Same mistakes. Over and over.”
He lets out a weak, nervous laugh. “Tar City has its… traditions.”
I lean back in my chair, making it creak. “Funny word for it.”
His eyes dart up to meet mine.
“Do you remember the night the knotted-hair girl disappeared?” I ask casually.
He twists in his chair, his hand automatically reaching for his coffee mug before he remembers it’s empty. “Why are you asking about that?” he bites out.
“Essay I’m writing. Comparative mythology, urban legends… Thought it’d be interesting to see how real events get twisted into ghost stories. Figured you might want to help. You always said I had a thing for writing. Might even get me into college.”
“Well, I’m sorry but I don’t know anything about that… girl.”
“Of course you do,” I reply.
“I’m not sure what you’re referring to,” he says, a little too fast.
“Everyone knows about her.”
He clears his throat. “There was no official disappearance. Only rumors. Teenagers exaggerating. She probably ran away.”
“Right,” I say, drawing the word out. “Rumors.”
I lean forward, planting my elbows on my knees. “You were on duty that night,” I continue. “Chaperoning. Monitoring the halls.”
“I don’t see how that’s relevant—”
“Thing is,” I interrupt, “the way I heard it, you were the last one who saw her.”
He stiffens like a board. “I didn’t see anything,” he snaps. “And I won’t be questioned like this in my own—”
I smile. “You know what a message to my grandfather can do, right?” I say, my voice dropping to a serious level. “So let me ask again. What did you see?”
His hands fold on the desk. “I’ve already told you,” he says, his voice trembling slightly. “There was nothing unusual about that night.”
I nod, all easy and agreeable. “Right,” I say. “Just a dance.”
He relaxes a fraction. Poor bastard.
“Bad punch,” I add, my voice light, almost friendly. “Embarrassing spill. Happens.”
His eyes flick up before he can stop them, a flash of pure panic.
I smile again. “You remember the punch. That’s good.”
“I—of course I do,” he says, his spine ramrod straight again.
“Behind the table,” I continue, painting the picture. “Ladle in hand. Some kid’s mom in a sequined sweater that should be illegal.”
He’s out of words.
“They filmed everything that night,” I say. “Kids bring cameras to everything. You know that.”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“I’m not implying anything. We have everything on tape. I just figured I’d give you a chance to explain before I write my take on it.”
His voice cracks, a pathetic little sound. “All I saw was that she ran out crying, okay? Then I—” He hesitates, his gaze darting to the door. “I got distracted by the… punch. I went to clean myself up and that’s when I heard them.”
“Them?” I ask, not moving an inch.
“Cynthia,” he says, the name ripped out of him. “That’s her name. She was hysterical, but she wasn’t alone. So I left them to it.”
“Who was she with?”
He exhales, the sound of a man deflating. “Rourke. Her boyfriend.”
I still.
“You mean… Detective Rourke?”
“But of course,” he says weakly, a sheen of sweat on his upper lip. “Is there another Rourke I don’t know about?”
I stand, pushing the chair back. “Thank you,” I say, already opening the door.
“St. Clair—” he calls. “You forgot your paper.”
* * *
I give the can one last shake, then I tag the brick. The R gets a real nasty curl at the end, and I let a fat drip slide down toward the pavement. My masterpiece.
WELCOME TO THIS YEAR’S FUNERAL : A NIGHT TO DISMEMBER.
The black paint looks like blood, thick and wet, clinging and twisting around the edges of the old tape lines where the Formal banner used to hang—now ripped and crumpled on the ground. Good riddance.
I lean back, hands on my hips, and soak it in.
The bell rings and the first shriek is a bonus, comes faster than I expected, followed immediately by some girl’s gasp.
“No fucking way,” some dude yells, and just like that, a crowd forms. A perfect, gawking audience.
They’re pointing and laughing, whispering like a bunch of damn gossips.
One of them reads it out loud, all dramatic, and their heads swivel, hungry for the culprit.
I’m already front and center, spray can dangling from my fingers. The artist at his own fucking gallery.
More people push in, voices getting louder. “What the hell—” “Oh my god, he didn’t.” “He did.”
And then, the voice I’m waiting for. “Jax?”
I finally turn, a grin spreading across my face.
Sisk is standing at the edge of my little circus, arms crossed so tight she might pop, eyes burning a hole right through me.
She’s wearing that dark green sweater I like, the one that makes her skin look like warm honey, and her hair’s pulled back just enough to make me want to pull the tie out and watch it fall all over her shoulders.
“Hello,” I say, cool as shit. Like we’re bumping into each other at a party.
She closes the distance, stopping just before the wet paint like it’s some kind of infectious disease. “You’re not even trying to pretend anymore, are you?”
“Pretend what?” I play dumb, but I know exactly where this is going. It’s always the same dance with her.
“That you don’t want attention,” she shoots back.
“That you’re not pulling this shit just because you know you’ll get away with it.
” Her eyes flash with that familiar fire, the one that tells me she’s both pissed and, let’s be honest, trying damn hard not to be into it.
“Because you’re a St. Clair and everyone else has to play by the rules and you don’t. ”
I glance up. “Well… it is my name up there, isn’t it?”
Her glare could cut glass. “You think that’s funny?”
“I sure do.”
“You think this is going to stop me from going to the Formal with Ivan?”
I let a real slow grin spread across my face. “Nah. But it might make you reconsider the theme. ‘A Night to Dismember’ has a nice ring to it, right?”
“You’re such an asshole.”
I lean in a little, lowering my voice. “Thought girls liked the bad guys.”
She scoffs, but it’s a little shaky. “You’re not a bad guy, Jax. You’re just lonely.”
That one hits a nerve. A clean shot right through the ribs. Which means she’s dead on, but I’ll die before I let her see it. “I guess we’ll see if I get the girl at the end,” I say, keeping my voice light.
Her mouth opens—locked and loaded, ready to fire the final round but right then—like a goddamn ghost materializing out of thin air—Ivan steps out of the building.
His eyes sweep over the scene: the wall, the crowd, me, and then her.
And he just… keeps walking. Right past us, without a word, straight to the black SUV that’s pulling up to the loop.
Behind me, the crowd starts to thin, people drifting toward the parking lot, but a core group stays. Watching. Whispering. Fucking vultures.
“St. Clair!”
Detective Rosen gets out of the driver’s side, sunglasses shoved up into his hair. He takes in the wall, the spray can in my hand, and then me. The whole damn picture.
I smile wide, like he’s the guest of honor I’ve been waiting for. “Save the evidence,” I say, and toss him the can in a perfect arc. “Wouldn’t want to lose your case.”
He snags it out of the air and stares at me for a long moment, then jerks his head toward the car. “Let’s go.”
I nod, falling into step beside him like we’re old pals. Ivan’s already in the back seat, staring straight ahead like a fucking robot. Doesn’t even spare me a glance. Which, somehow, pisses me off more than it should.
Rosen opens the back door and I glance over my shoulder. Sisk is still there, standing in the same spot, watching me go. I give her a sharp, two-fingered mock salute, then I slide into the car and let the door thud shut behind me.
As we pull away from the curb, I lean my head back against the cool leather and close my eyes. I let out a long, slow breath because everything is going exactly according to plan.