He says it so matter-of-factly, as if it’s a truth he’s always known about me, but he hasn’t. He just peeled away everything I’ve always tried to hide.
And yes, I hate it.
“Fuck you,” I spit out, unable to stop myself. “I’m nothing like that.”
“Lie,” he says accusingly as his eyes drop to my lips. “You need to learn to lie better if you want to fool me, Little Thief.”
TWELVE
“Oh, shut up,” she snaps, her voice dripping with venom.
She’s all fire and sharp edges.
The hostility is almost reflexive, striking before anyone gets close enough to hurt her. A defense mechanism polished to perfection. And yet, it doesn’t feel personal. It’s not about me. I’m simply the unlucky recipient of whatever ghosts she’s still fighting.
Still, it puts me on edge.
I cross my arms, studying her, cataloging and categorizing every shift in her expression. The feistiness, the defiance, it’s all a show, a layer of armor as bright and distracting as her name and all the damn glitter—a front. I’ve seen it a hundred times. People hiding behind loud voices and sharp words because silence is too dangerous and might let the truth slip out.
But her? She’s different. She’s not just hiding. She’s actively guarding something, and the more I watch, the more I feel it. This undercurrent of tension, of something coiled tight and ready to spring.
Is it fear? Pain? Or something more dangerous that could burn us all if we’re not careful?
Whatever the reason, I don’t like it.
She’s an anomaly, and I don’t like not knowing what I’m dealing with. People are supposed to be predictable. Easy to understand. Patterns. But her? Every time I think I’ve got her figured out, she throws a curveball—like now.
And if I’m honest, part of me hates how much it bothers me. How much I want to pull back the layers and see what’s underneath. She’s chaos, and I’ve spent my life avoiding chaos. Predictability keeps us alive. Chaos will get us killed.
How would Uncle Oscar handle this?
Much better, for sure. And probably much gentler too. Oscar had this way of seeing through people without breaking them apart. He’d pull the truth out like a magician pulling a coin from behind your ear, leaving you wondering how the hell he did it. And he’d leave you better for it, somehow lighter, even if you didn’t deserve it.
I’m not Oscar, though. Not even close. I’m too blunt, too impatient, and definitely too cynical. But he taught me what I know, and I owe it to him to try.
I shift my stance, leaning into the tension between us, pressing just enough to see how she’ll react. Maybe I’ll get a clue. Maybe she’ll crack. Or maybe I’m trying to convince myself I’m still the one in control here.
“Know how lie detectors work?” I ask, letting a teasing edge slip into my voice. “They ask questions and make you tell the truth first, to see how your body reacts. That’s what I do. I pick up on how you act when you’re telling the truth. Then I watch how you change when you lie. It’s all about patterns.”
It’s a half-truth. Sure, patterns are part of it, but there’s something else, something unexplainable that lets me see through her.
She scoffs, but there’s hesitation behind it like she’s not sure whether to dismiss me or take me seriously.
“And girl…” Levi chimes in, “… he wouldn’t even need patterns to read you. Even I can read you right now.”
He’s been watching her as closely as I have, but not the way I am.
He’s amused.
I’m not.
There’s way too much at stake here—more than she could possibly understand. This isn’t only about tricks and illusions, not some game we’re playing under neon lights and half-truths. This is about survival, ensuring we don’t end up buried in the wreckage of our own plans. She’s a wildcard, a skilled, fiery wildcard, but even the best cards can burn you if you play them wrong.
I can’t afford to play her wrong.
I can’t afford for her to be anything less than what we need her to be. One slip, one misread, and everything we’ve built and are fighting for could turn to ash. The ghosts of the past are clawing at our heels, and Veronica isn’t the kind of enemy you fuck around with. She’ll rip us apart if we let her.
Glitter scoffs again, louder this time as if the volume will make it more genuine. “Patterns?”
