I don’t even want to think about Jane. One of my closest girlfriends…is my aunt? Just when I’m beginning to wrap my head around that bombshell, hysteria will snake through, and I’ll have to shut that shit down.
Later. I’ll attempt to wrap my head around that later.
Right now…
Right now, I need to confront my older brother.
Adoptive brother, apparently.
He’s here. He’s actually fucking here, and restless anticipation skitters across my skin like an infestation of fire ants. I don’t know where Aria sends him most days, but today, he’s sipping coffee while staring out the living room window, dark shadows marring the skin beneath his eyes and his hair disheveled. He looks awful, and my heart is unsure whether it wants to break or harden.
What, exactly, has he been doing when Aria sends him away on “business”? Hurting people? Killing them?
The guys are in our room. I asked to do this alone.
Well, they’resupposedto be. I think I can see Zane’s piercing brown eyes staring up at me from behind a pillar, but I’m pretending I don’t notice that.
Crazy-ass stalker.
Fischer doesn’t acknowledge me as I step closer. He just…stands and stares, like he’s been placed there as part of the room’s architecture—permanent, unmoving. The early morning light strips the world of warmth, turning the glass into a pale mirror. His reflection looks worse up close: hollowed eyes, jaw unshaven, hair sticking up in directions that suggest he ran his hands through it too many times and then gave up. He holds his coffee with both hands, but he isn’t drinking it. It’s merely an anchor, something to keep him upright.
I hesitate, then clear my throat.
The sound cuts through the stillness like a snapped wire. Fischer jolts, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim. He spins around, instincts flaring before recognition settles in.
“Ellie,” he says, exhaling. Like he didn’t realize how tightly he’d been wound until now.
“Sorry,” I say, though I’m not. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
He snorts. “You didn’t. I scared myself.”
There’s a beat where neither of us knows what to do with the quiet.
“Do you want to play chess?” I ask.
He stares at me. Actually stares, like I spoke in another language. “You hate chess.”
“I know.”
His mouth twitches. “You complain the entire time we play. Last time, you accused the board of being rigged.”
“It was,” I say mildly.
A breath of laughter slips out of him before he can stop it. He rubs his face with one hand, dragging it downward like he’s trying to reset himself. “You trying to distract me?”
“Yes.”
He considers that, then nods. “All right. Let’s do it.”
We dig out a board I spotted earlier from the lower cabinet. The board is worn smooth in places, one corner chipped. A few of the pieces don’t match—the result of years of losses and replacements. Fischer sets it up automatically, muscle memory guiding his hands. I take white without asking. He doesn’t comment.
We sit across from each other at the kitchen table. The house feels too big, too quiet, like it’s listening.
I move first.
For a while, the only sounds are the soft knock of wooden pieces and the faint hum of the refrigerator. Fischer plays aggressively, like he always does. I play defensively, buying time. It’s familiar enough to feel almost safe.
Almost.
