lower than the other. He is an old man in a demigod’s body—knowledge that wrenches my heart and simmers my blood in the same jolt. “Did Damon ever come back?” I finally ask. “Try to get in touch?”
I hesitate at assuming the worst, though Cassian implied it when first telling me about his brother. This isn’t something I want to talk about anymore, Ella.
Mallory confirms the exact same meaning, making my heart squeeze and my eyes sting, as her proud shield tumbles.
“The next time I saw my boy, I was standing in the morgue…identifying him on a steel table.”
I push fingers to my quivering lips. I have expected this truth, simply not the image it was delivered on. “H-how did you tell Cassian?”
“He…already knew.” She slowly shakes her head. “The little bastard just…did. He even had dinner ready when I got home. Said he knew I’d be in no mood to cook.” Her cheekbones tighten, gaunt from the effort of containing her emotions. “Boiled hot dogs and burnt Tater Tots.” Finally, her tears brim over. “I ate every damn bite—then threw it up in the kitchen sink later, when listening to him trying to muffle his sobs by running the shower.”
I cannot hold back any longer either. With wet tracks pouring down my face, I hurry to her. Hold her as tightly as she grips me, letting our sorrow flow once more, emulating the morning in which it has struck: in quiet gusts created by a somber river.
Until someone behind me softly clears their throat.
I angle back, the mirror image of Mallory’s move, welcoming the chance to smile again. “Prim. Thank you for coming up.” Presumably to inform me Cassian is home—or at least that is what I infer, before noticing the furrows in her brow. “Is everything all right?” I charge. “Where is he?”
“Not home yet,” she replies. Dips hands into the pockets of her apron, always worn during her baking sprints. “And I am sorry to intrude—”
“You’re never an intrusion.” Mallory’s insistence, true to her queenly grace, threads reprimand with encouragement.
Prim, no slouch in the two-messages-in-one department, answers with a smile that is half thank you and half fuck you. “Well, when this kept clanging like the bells of Notre Dame,”—she pulls my cell out of her left pocket—“I thought it best to come find you.”
As if on cue, the device chimes in her hand. Then again. I take it from her, my frown intensifying. “That is the text bell from my parents.”
“Well, they’re damn near nine one-one’ing you, girl.”
It is the first time Prim has approached casual conversation with me—a bittersweet win, since there is not a second to enjoy it. Not with Maimanne or Paipanne, perhaps both, turning my phone into a dinging arcade and my chest into a jam worse than the Lincoln Tunnel at rush hour.
Tension that only worsens as I scroll the confusing barrage of bubbles down the screen.
:: What in Creator’s name is going on? ::
:: What on Earth have you done, young lady? ::
:: Could you have at least smiled for this? Even once? ::
:: Why are you not controlling this bedlam? ::
:: Where are you? ::
:: Why are you ignoring your father and me? ::
:: Mishella DaLysse—this is a complete disgrace. ::
:: We will not be able to show our faces in court. ::
There are at least two dozen more, spewing the same thing in different syntax. Two more pop up before I am finished reading, so I give up.
Mallory’s face copies my perplexity. “They’re timestamped over the last fifteen minutes.”
Prim nods. “The bell choir started a few minutes after you came up here.”
I drop back onto the couch, letting Mallory keep my device. “But what does it all mean?”
Mallory’s lips tense. Still barely moving them, gaze still glued to the screen, mutters, “Do they always talk to you like this?”
Pandora’s Box. Huge, pretty bow.
That I completely ignore.
Boxes cannot be concerns right now. My parents need to be—only I have no idea where to begin answering them. “What are they babbling about?” I ricochet a stare between Mallory and Prim. “I have no idea what they are even—”
The phone shrills with another sound. The Cake by the Ocean ringtone. A familiar face lights up the screen on my device. Dark sherry hair in a trendy style, with eyes nearly the same color. A warm smile, reflecting the fun we had during our first lunch outing nearly a month ago. Since then, those lunches have become weekly occurrences. Undoubtedly, Kathryn Robbe