“You heard me.” Harmony’s voice stayed calm, cool, and collected. “If you stop reacting, he loses power. Let him wonder what you know.”
Torie nodded slowly, like a student memorizing a lesson. “You really think I should?”
“I think you already have,” Harmony said.
Outside, thunder rolled. Inside, the lie took root.
Harmony liked walking in a summer storm. She had no desire to head inside. She moved along the back street when Zach stepped into view, appearing out of the fog like a ghost, toolbelt low on his hips, shirt damp from sweat and rain.
“Storm’s going to tear some of these decks apart,” he said, glancing up from beneath the brim of his cap.
“You’ll enjoy fixing them all over again.”
“Can’t leave things broken,” he replied with a shrug.
“Does that mean people, too?” Harmony asked.
He huffed out a laugh. “People aren’t fixable.”
“Do you ever stop working?” she pressed.
“Work keeps me out of trouble.”
“Trouble’s not always bad.”
He smirked. “You would be the one to say that.”
“I can prove it,” she countered.
Zach wore calculation in his eyes. “You spend a lot of time collecting other people’s secrets. Do you ever worry someone might be collecting yours?”
Harmony smiled. “Let them try. I’m not easy to read.”
He nodded toward her notebook. “Maybe they already have.”
“Bring it,” she said.
He didn’t answer, but his gaze lingered a second too long. There was something in it—a knowledge, maybe. Or guilt. Guilt of what? Zach had a way of being where he didn’t belong, moving through Avalon like the tide—quiet, patient, collecting fragments.
Harmony didn’t look away. Neither did he. The hum of insects faded. Only the pulse of the storm and the faint clink of glasses from somewhere nearby remained. Up close, she saw the cracks—a twitch in his jaw, a shadow behind his eyes.
She took a slow sip from her bottle, aware of his gaze tracking the movement. “You always stare like you’re waiting for someone to confess.”
“Maybe I am,” he said softly. “People tell you everything if you’re silent long enough.”
Somewhere behind them, a car door shut. The sound carried strangely in the fog, echoing down the narrow street. Harmony didn’t turn.
“Do I look like I’m ready to confess?”
He gave a brief smile. “You look like you already have.”
The air between them thickened. The faint scent of sawdust mixed with rain clung to his skin. His shirt stuck to his shoulders, muscles shifting beneath it in precise, economical movements. The kind of control that could be comforting—or dangerous, depending on where his hands went next.
Harmony leaned in a fraction. “You think you’ve got me figured out?”
“I think you’re collecting us,” he said. “Every secret. Every scar. Like you’re afraid you’ll vanish if you stop.”
His words hit too close. She kept her gaze steady, heartbeat even while something sharp passed between them. “Maybe I just like to know what I’m dealing with.”
