Chapter 31
Thirty-One
THEN | JAX
We’re all sitting when Mom finally decides to make her entrance—dressed like it’s my goddamn wedding day. Floor-length silk. Her hair twisted up into some complicated knot on her head.
Sisk takes one look at her and immediately tries to shrink into herself, like an animal that suddenly wishes it had evolved a shell. Not a good first impression. Of either of them, to each other.
I clear my throat, trying to cut through the ice that’s forming fast enough to give you frostbite. “Mom, this is Sisk.”
She turns to her like she’s just been handed a stray cat she’s not sure she wants to pet. “Sisk?” she repeats. “That’s an unusual name, isn’t it? Is that a nickname or…”
Sisk straightens in her chair, a flicker of defiance in her spine.
“First name. Last name’s even less usual—Zaitseva.
” She says it like she’s ripping off a band-aid.
“Fun fact, it means hare. Rabbit. My last name, I mean. My parents moved here when my sister was born. I was born in Tar City, though. So…” She shrugs, a little too casual. “Guess I’m local too.”
Mom studies her like a riddle she’s already decided isn’t worth the effort to solve. “I see,” she says.
The doors swing open and Oliver steps in with the first course. He nods toward my mother, but doesn’t speak.
I glance at the tray, half-hoping for one of my favorites—maybe the burrata with blood-orange glaze, or the duck crostini.
But no, of course not, it’s my mother’s favorite instead.
Steak tartare, stacked like some kind of fucked-up sculpture.
Quail yolk cradled on top. Brioche toast points cut into perfect little triangles.
I scoop some onto a toast, press the back of my fork into it. Same ritual I’ve done since I was six.
Across the table, Sisk stares at her plate like it might still be alive and plotting its escape. “Don’t tell me you’re a vegetarian,” my father says. “We can get something else brought out—”
Her hand freezes midair.
Shit.
I nudge her foot under the table. She startles and looks up. I tilt my fork. Scoop. Press. Bite. She watches, registers the move. Her shoulders fall a fraction. She copies me, a little clumsy, but she does it.
Good rabbit, I think, out of nowhere. The words just land in my head. Weird, but kind of perfect. I wish I could say it, just to see what she’d do. Probably blush, or stab me with her fork, maybe both.
We’re seated formally across from each other like we’re in a damn royal court—napkins on laps, posture perfect, pretending this isn’t the most awkward dinner of all time.
She swallows. “Oh—no,” she says, a little too quick, mid-chew.
“I eat meat. I mean… this is Tar City.” Then she adds, “Half the neighborhoods stinks like blood and bleach. There’s a butcher shop on every corner.
You grow up here, you either eat meat or you starve.
I was taught young to never ask what’s in the sausage.
” It almost lands as a joke. Almost. She tries to laugh, but it comes out more like an exhale. “I’m not picky. This is just… fancy.”
Mom’s wineglass stills halfway to her mouth. She watches everything: every twitch, every syllable, like a hawk in a silk dress.
“So, Sisk,” my father says casually, like he’s just making conversation, “what are your plans after graduation?”
I see the question hit her sideways. I answer for her before she can fumble it. “She’s a dancer. I told you already. Atlantic Academy. Full ride.”
My father lifts his glass. “Is that so? That’s quite an achievement.”
“It is,” I say.
“Congratulations,” he adds, gesturing to her.
Sisk swallows, then forces a polite smile. “Been dancing my whole life. Glad it paid off.”
Mom sips her wine. There’s a quick, buried nod of approval. Like Sisk just passed a test she didn’t even know she was taking.
“Anne was quite the dancer herself,” my father adds, tipping his glass toward my mother.
Mom’s gaze sharpens. “You exaggerate.”
“If it weren’t for the injury,” he says lightly, “she might’ve gone professional. And what about you, Jaxwell?” he continues, his eyes sliding to me. “Any clearer plans yet? Medicine still not calling your name?”
I keep my face neutral, a blank fucking canvas. “No.”
He hums, a sound that’s pure condescension. “Shame. With your resources, your grades… one would hope something decisive might emerge.” A clean punch, wrapped in a smile.
Mom sets her glass down with a soft click. “Jax doesn’t need to rush,” she says smoothly, her voice a velvet curtain. “He’s exactly where he should be. There’s no prize for leaving home early.” Her hand settles briefly on my arm.
Dad lifts his glass. “Of course.”
Mom turns back to Sisk, her smile reset to default. “So,” she says, “have you chosen your dress for the Formal?”
“Oh—is that this weekend already?” Dad asks, like he just remembered.
“Yes,” Mom replies, barely hiding the sigh of a long-suffering martyr. She turns to me, her fingers tightening slightly on my sleeve. “I had your clothes pressed. Everything’s ready.” She looks back at Sisk. “Will you be meeting here, or will Jax pick you up? I’d love a photograph in the foyer.”
Sisk opens her mouth. I know that look: she’s about to say something real, something that’ll shatter this whole glass house. I tap my foot lightly against hers under the table.
She swallows it. “Yes,” she says, smoothing her napkin. “A photo sounds great.”
The tension dips for a breath. Right on cue, Oliver reappears with the second course—pistachio-dusted lamb, served with lavender foam and something unrecognizable but plated like art.
Sisk watches it land in front of her like someone just dropped a human heart on her tray at school lunch.
She looks horrified. She picks up her knife slowly, her hand steady, and cuts a piece of the lamb.
Then, casual—too casual, maybe—she tilts her head and asks, “You two… went to St. Clair High too, right? Jax told me you met there?”
“Yes. We were sweethearts. Quite the storybook match, apparently.” Dad answers, as he takes a slow bite.
Mom lifts her wineglass again, her eyes still glued to her plate.
Sisk continues, her voice light as a feather. “And you two… went to college, then came back here?”
Mom sets her glass down. “Daniel went off to study medicine,” she says dryly. “Left me here with this one to raise.” She glances at me. “Not all by myself—I had help. But… he barely saw Jax those years.”
Dad lets out a long-suffering sigh. “You talk like I didn’t care about this family and went on a vacation,” he says. “I was working. Studying. I had three jobs during clinicals.”
“But you weren’t here,” Mom says. “That was the point.”
Sisk glances between them, but she doesn’t flinch. She simply watches, taking it all in.
Mom continues. “But yes. We stayed, because the St. Clair family has a responsibility to this city. Right, hon?”
Dad nods, his jaw tight enough to crack walnuts. “Right.”
Sisk shifts in her chair. “So you stayed together after graduation. Wow. That’s… some serious commitment, you were so young.”
I resist the urge to say anything.
“We were married at eighteen,” Mom says.
Dad adds, “Same age Jax is now.”
Sisk looks at me, then she smiles, sweet as anything.
“Twenty blissful years,” Dad says.
I catch the twitch in my mom’s cheek. Blissful is a fucking cosmic joke.
“Oh,” Sisk says, her voice dripping with false innocence. “I’m sorry—I was never great with dates. But doesn’t that put your graduation in the year of… you know… the Knotted-Hair-Girl disappearance?”
Mom coughs and I make sure to look at my father for his reaction, but he doesn’t seem bothered at all. He just takes another sip of wine.
“Cynthia and Anne were actually best friends,” he says between bites. “Horrible tragedy. We both took it very hard.”
“I’m so sorry. I can imagine,” Sisk says lightly. “And they never really found her? Cynthia?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “There were theories, of course. Too many, frankly. Police followed every thread they could, but no resolution. Some things… just happen.”
“No suspects?” Sisk presses, leaning forward just a little.
“Everyone’s talking about it again,” I say to help her. “Saying it’s been twenty years, like it’s due to happen again.”
My mother dabs her mouth with her napkin. “Absurd.”
“Anne—” Dad warns.
“They’re old enough,” she snaps. “It’s about time we tell him.”
“Tell me what, Mom?” I ask nicely like I’m ok with all this.
She looks at me. Then at Sisk. “Cynthia deserved what happened.”
“What?” I set my utensils down with a clatter. “You know what happened to her?”
Oliver steps in like he’s on cue, ready to clear the plates. We let him, as suddenly no one is interested in the food.
“Cynthia wanted money,” my mother says. “She envied me and Daniel. We were friends, but she always made sure to mention how what he had was better. The car. The house. The name.” She picks up her wine again.
“I didn’t blame her for wanting more. But when her family’s rendering plant suddenly burned down and the insurance money cleared…
she acted like it was luck. Well. That wasn’t luck. ”
Sisk doesn’t blink. “You’re saying she bargained?”
My mother meets her eyes. “Yes. And when the stains didn’t clear from her fingers, she panicked.
Tried to back out. She even tried to give the money away.
Donations and donations. Begged for help.
” She sets the glass down. “But by then it was too late. Once you make a deal…” She shrugs, a small, dismissive gesture. “It’s done.”
“Dad?” I look at him.
He nods once, his expression grim. “She came to us after. Shaking. Rambling about what she gave up. What it asked for. Said she’d thrown her locket into the pit first—just a token.
But that it wanted more. She said she heard a voice.
” He glances at my mother. “The next day, the little girl next door was gone. Three years old. Everyone blamed the father—he’d done time, had a record, was halfway to jail already. ”