Page 96 of That Pretty Pucking Mouth

It’s perfect. Airtight. Every piece of evidence carefully crafted to support a narrative that protects everyone in this room while sacrificing no one.

“What about the broken glass? And blood on my clothes?”

They all look towards me.

“He wouldn’t take no for answer, so you hit him and ran.”

I nod, my eyes meeting Thatcher’s.

“You’re not just the witness,” Noah says, turning to address me directly. “You’re the alibi that proves it wasn’t murder. You left before he died. Your roommate saw you come home upset but uninjured. Perfect testimony.”

The weight of understanding settles over me like a blanket. I’m not here as Thatcher’s girlfriend or Noah’s charity case. I’m here because I’m valuable. Because my clean reputation makes me believable, my friendship with Cassidy provides unshakeable witness testimony.

“You’re not just Thatcher’s anymore,” Noah continues, his eyes boring into mine. “You’re ours. That means we protect you, but it also means you protect us.”

The silence in the room is complete, broken only by the whisper of candle flames and the distant sound of traffic above. Every face is turned toward me, waiting for my response, my commitment, my soul.

But something has shifted inside me as I’ve listened to their plan, watched their careful preparation, seen the scope of their organization. I’m not a victim in this room. I’m not prey being hunted or a pawn being moved across a board.

I’m a strategist. A player. Someone with skills and knowledge and value beyond what even they realize.

A chalice appears on the table—old silver, tarnished with age and use. Noah draws a small knife from his robes, its blade catching the candlelight like liquid fire.

“Each member bleeds for the family,” he says, pricking his palm and letting dark drops fall into the cup. “And the family bleeds for each member.”

One by one, they come forward. The student body president. The dean’s son. The quarterback. The hockey players. Each cuts their palm, each adds their blood to the growing pool in the chalice. When Thatcher’s turn comes, he doesn’t hesitate, his eyes never leaving mine as the knife bites into his flesh.

And then it’s my turn.

The knife is heavier than I expected, warm from all the hands that have held it before mine. I feel the eyes of the room on me, feel the weight of this moment, this choice, this permanent alteration of my life’s trajectory.

I press the blade to my palm, feel the sharp bite of metal against skin. Blood wells up, dark and rich in the candlelight, and drips into the chalice with the soft sound of rain on water.

“I protect the family,” I say, my voice carrying clearly through the chamber. “The family protects me.”

Noah lifts the chalice, swirling its contents gently before taking a sip. Then it’s passed around the circle, each member drinking from the mingled blood of all. When it reaches me, I don’t hesitate. The metallic taste coats my tongue, bitter and somehow sacred.

As I swallow, as the blood of this brotherhood enters my system, I understand with crystal clarity that I’m no longer playing Thatcher’s game. I’m no longer the scared girl who stumbled into a nightmare on Halloween night.

I’m something sacred.

I’m a Reaper now.

Epilogue

The packing tape makes a sharp ripping sound as I seal the last box, the noise unnaturally loud in the hollow space that used to be my bedroom. Everything that defined me for two years fits into six cardboard containers—clothes, books, the ceramic mug my mom sent for my birthday, the succulent that somehow survived my complete inability to keep anything green alive.

It’s strange how little space a life actually takes up when you strip it down to its essentials.

Cassidy hovers in the doorway like a ghost of our friendship, arms crossed over her chest, watching me with barely concealed resentment. She’s been like this for days—following me around the apartment with those wounded blue eyes, making pointed comments about how quickly I’m moving on, how convenient everything has become.

“So that’s it?” Her voice cuts through the silence, sharp with hurt and accusation. “You’re just leaving?”

I don’t look up from labeling the box in my neat, careful handwriting. Books - Bedroom. The black Sharpie bleeds slightly into the cardboard, creating fuzzy edges around the letters that remind me of blood seeping into fabric.

“We both know this hasn’t been working,” I say, capping the marker with a decisive click.

“Because you’ve changed.” The words come out like an accusation, like I’ve committed some unforgivable crime by evolving beyond her expectations. “Ever since that night, you’ve been different.”

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