She flicks her cigarette away, the ember arcing into the darkness, and grins at me. “You were such a closet rebel. Lip gloss and straight A’s by day. Secret arsonist by night.”
“Only the one time,” I say in a deadpan voice. “Twice, if you count the toaster oven in the choir room.”
Frankie howls. “Oh my god, I forgot about that! You set Pop-Tarts on fire and blamed it on the choir director.”
“I said it was divine punishment for making us sing ‘Seasons of Love’ in February.” She bumps me with her shoulder, warm and close. “I still am a menace,” I murmur, the words a quiet promise to myself. Maybe that’s what he liked about me once before everything broke.
Frankie sobers just enough to glance over. “Good.”
The air hangs soft between us again—lighter now, not so sharp around the edges. My lips curve before I mean to. Frankie’s always been the one person I didn’t have to pretend with. Even when we were kids and my life was theater, she saw the backstage mess and never flinched.
I tilt my head. “You remember that night you dared me to climb the billboard?”
“Which one?”
“The Welcome to Willowridge sign.”
Frankie grins. “You got halfway up before the sheriff showed.”
“And you told him I was protesting government overreach.”
“Hey, it worked. He let you off with a warning.”
“Because he was terrified of my father,” I mutter, the name a bitter taste in my mouth. Frankie’s smile falters, just barely. “Still,” I add. “I like to think it was my stirring speech on civic injustice.”
She laughs again, but this time there’s something gentler beneath it. A memory wrapped in armor. Her gaze is a quiet weight, like she’s not just looking at me, but into me, reading the cracks in my soul I try so hard to hide. She doesn’t push. Frankie just lets the silence sit, soft and shared.
Chapter 4
Darla
Thestarchedwhitetableclothof the country club dining room does nothing to soften the weaponized silence at our table. My father has just returned from across the room, his movements stiff, his jaw a tight line of controlled fury. My eyes follow the path of his retreat, and that’s when I see him. Malachi.
For half a second, I almost expect to see East instead. My heart still trips like it did that night. The one sound I can’t forget. The one I still hear in my sleep. He’s a monolith of ink and leather, a storm cloud in a room of pristine pastels, sitting alone at a small table. He is so utterly out of place, and so completely unbothered by it, that a jolt of something I can’t name—fear? admiration?—shoots through me. The air from last night still clings to me. It’ssmoke, whiskey, sin. I shouldn’t have brought it here. He doesn’t belong in this world, and neither do I. My father sits, the scrape of his chair against the polished floor a sharp, angry sound.
My mother hasn’t said a word. The candle flickers in the center of the table, its flame a nervous, twitching thing that dances with every forced movement and every clink of silverware against porcelain. She just sits there, her smile frozen, her glass refilling itself as though she doesn’t notice. Or doesn’t care. The air is thick with the cloying scent of roasted garlic and the dry, papery smell of old money. My heartbeat is a frantic, trapped bird in my chest, a stark contrast to the measured, almost silent breathing of my father.
Across from me, my father dabs his mouth with his napkin as if he’s on stage. Every gesture is exact. Every word calculated.
“This weekend,” he says, setting his fork down with a deliberate, unnaturally loud clink, “we’ll be having a guest for dinner.”
I look up. His tone commands rather than suggests.
“Trent Moreland. His father and I go way back. He’s in town for a few weeks, and I think it’s time you two got properly acquainted.”
My stomach plummets, a cold, heavy knot tightening in my gut. The bite of salmon on my tongue turns to ash. I push the piece around my plate, the tines of my fork scraping against the china.
“He’ll be joining us Saturday. I expect you to be there.”
“I have plans,” I say quietly, the words tasting like a lie even though they’re true. I know it won’t matter.
“You’ll reschedule,” he replies without looking up from his glass, the dismissal a casual flick of a wrist. He doesn’t raise his voice. He never has to. Silence is a weapon in my family. In the club, it’s a wound. Either way, it cuts deep. His quiet is sharperthan anyone else’s anger. “And you’ll be on your best behavior. This family has enough eyes on it as it is.”
There it is. Not a request. A command wrapped in the silk of high-society etiquette.
I bite the inside of my cheek, the sharp tang of blood a small, secret anchor. Trent. Of course. The Morelands are old money and worse politics. I’ve met him twice. Once when I was fifteen and he winked at me like I was something to collect. His gaze left a slimy trail on my skin. And again last year at a charity gala where he talked more about himself than the event. He’s exactly the man my father would want me tied to: clean-cut, a name that keeps mine in line. A lock for my cage.
“Of course,” I say. My voice is clipped; a perfect porcelain doll’s reply.
