Chapter 49
Haiyden
Saturday morning family breakfast has always been a tradition in the Greystone household. And it always starts the same.
My mom wakes up early—stripping bed sheets, gathering dirty towels, sorting clothes into neat baskets lined up outside the laundry closet.
The washing machine hums quietly behind the door.
The sharp scent of bleach drifts from the bathroom down the hall, softened only slightly by a flickering lemon candle.
In the kitchen, the warmth of sweet pancakes and bitter coffee hangs in the air—a scent that’s always meant home.
When we were kids, Saturdays felt like a gift. Like something special.
Our rooms were directly across the hall, and without fail, Willow was always up before me. She’d bounce on her toes outside my door, knocking, calling my name, insisting it was time for pancakes.
Even after we moved out, she still showed up early—waiting for me at the door. Because breakfast couldn’t start until we were all together.
It was the one thing that kept us connected.
The one thing that kept us us .
But after Willow died, Saturday mornings became nothing more than an empty echo of what they used to be. I still showed up. I made sure of that. But the house was too quiet. The familiar smells had turned bitter.
My dad buried himself in the newspaper. My mom changed her pancake recipe. The small TV in the kitchen buzzed softly over the silence—a poor attempt to fill the space Willow left behind.
The tradition didn’t die with her.
But all the joy in it did.
This morning is no different. We’re together—but not really.
For a while, the only sounds in the kitchen are the sizzle of pancakes hitting the griddle and the occasional rustle of newspaper pages.
I sip my coffee, tasting the bitterness more than usual, as idle conversation drifts through the air like background noise.
My mom asks about work.
I answer.
My dad grunts but doesn’t look up.
And I start to miss the days when we were a family. When this wasn’t the normal.
When we’ve finished eating, my mom stands, clears the plates, and wipes the table before slipping out of the kitchen.
I hear the familiar creak of the laundry closet door, the soft clatter of the detergent bottle, the loud rattle of the machine kicking on .
I twist my coffee mug between my hands, fingers threading through the handle, just waiting—
For my dad to say something.
For my mom to come back.
For enough time to pass that I can leave.
The TV’s on, volume low—barely there—until two words cut through the silence and nearly knock me out of my seat.
Juliette Sinclair.
My head snaps up. I move toward the screen before I even realize I’m doing it.
The room fades as I lock onto the broadcast, trying to convince myself I misheard.
But then I see it—
The headline scrolling across the bottom of the screen:
Jane Doe identified as Juliette Sinclair.
My body goes utterly still.
For a second, I can’t move. Can’t think. Can’t breathe.
But before the shock can settle, my dad reaches for the remote. His hand fumbles—scrambling for the power button.
Too fast. Too forceful.
At first, I think it’s grief. First Willow. Now Jules.
My parents loved her. They loved their friendship—how she was always around, always part of the family.
Until Willow died. Then everything went to shit.
But something about my dad’s reaction isn’t right. It’s not shock. It’s not sadness. It’s control.
The TV cuts off, leaving the room in total silence.
I turn to him, frowning, my voice unsure. “Dad, stop. That was Jules.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Too casual. Too dismissive.
My lungs tighten.
I reach for the remote—needing to confirm what I saw. Needing to prove I’m not imagining this. That someone else isn’t dead.
But the second my fingers touch it, he pulls it back.
I lunge, gripping, twisting, yanking— just let me turn it back on.
I don’t even realize how desperate I am until his grip gives. Until he lets go. Until he shakes his head—slow, dismissive—like this is some kind of game.
Like I’m wasting his time.
I slam my thumb into the power button, desperate to get the screen back.
After a few achingly long seconds, the TV buzzes back to life. A newscaster’s voice cuts through the air, mid-sentence—
“... was discovered just beyond a bend near Lake Crest’s northern edge.”
I freeze.
The lake.
Where Willow—
The remote nearly slips from my hand. My palms are clammy. My pulse—a wild siren in my ears.
This can’t be real.
My voice barely scrapes out, uneven and low. “Dad… it’s Jules.”
He scoffs.
He scoffs.
The sound is dismissive, so fucking cold my stomach lurches.
“Let it go,” he says, casual as ever, folding up his newspaper like it’s nothing. Like this is just another meaningless news story.
He stands, pushing back from the table without even glancing in my direction.
My jaw goes slack, dizzy heat flooding my skull.
He walks over to the TV and, without a word, shuts it off at the source—pressing the button like that’s enough to erase it. Like if the screen goes dark, it never happened at all.
“She should’ve told the truth.”
The words don’t register at first.
My mind scrambles to make sense of them—but they don’t fit. They don’t belong.
“What the fuck did you just say?”
He steps toward me, towering—his presence swallowing the space between us.
His voice is calm, but it’s a blade.
“Don’t look at me like that, Haiyden.” He pauses. “She made her choice. And I made mine.”
My whole body coils tight—rage and disgust battling beneath my skin.
I could kill him.
I could wrap my hands around his throat.
Break something that should’ve been broken a long time ago.
But I don’t.
Instead, I turn. Even though every step away feels impossible. Even though every part of me wants to stay. Even though I want to destroy.
I make it to the door, but I can feel him behind me. Watching .
His voice drops to a whisper—meant just for me. “Don’t do anything stupid, Haiyden. For once.”
My knuckles go white around the doorknob.
He wants a reaction.
I hold it in, barely.
But I let the silence do the talking.
Then I step outside, gasping for air—only now, realizing I’d been holding my breath.