Page 52 of A Smile Full of Lies
I waited until she set her mug down, her fingers tight around the ceramic like she was holding on for balance. She looked like she might flee at any second, but she didn’t. That was enough for me to press.
I reached into the kitchen drawer by my hip, slid open the false back, and pulled out the matte black envelope I’d tucked away yesterday. Heavy. Unmarked. The kind of thing that already carried its own gravity.
Her birthday was October 31. I’d known that for years, logged it away without letting myself use it.
But now? She was under my roof. She’d chosen me over survival, and I couldn’t resist the pull anymore.
My spooky little siren.
Of course she was born on Halloween. Of course the girl who told an anonymous ‘stranger’ on the internet she wanted to behunted and taken and ruined in the dark had been born under the veil.
I traced my finger over the envelope’s edge, knowing exactly what she’d find inside: the ticket gleaming sleek and foil-etched, her guaranteed VIP entry embedded in the code. Priority access. Staff would know her on sight as a VIP guest.
I could’ve kept her away from it. Could’ve protected her. Instead? I was luring her straight into my world. And this time, she wouldn’t even want to get away — except… maybe she would run for me. And maybe we’d both love every second of the chase.
I held it out to her. She looked at it, looked at me. I just waited.
Slow. Hesitant. Her fingers curled around the envelope like it might bite her.
“It’s not a bomb,” I said, voice low, steady.
She didn’t smile. Just opened the seal with quiet caution, sliding out the thick black card. She eased the card free, her eyes catching on the foil-etched letters.
The Hollowing: An Immersive Haunted Experience at Stonewood Manor.
Her body locked up like she’d been hit and she shot to her feet.
She read it again. And again. Her lips parted.
“No.”
“Yes.”
My tone didn’t waver.
“Jesus, Knox. That’s the house. That’s where it happened.”
“It’s good PR,” I said evenly. “For the book. If you decide to write it.”
Her eyes cut to mine, sharp and wounded.
“I haven’t said yes yet.”
“You should. There’s already enough curiosity about my family’s unsolved murder to guarantee it blows up if you write it. Nina wasn’t wrong about that part.”
She flinched, like the weight of it was too much.
“Nina is fucking disgusting for even suggesting that I use you like that. I would never do that to you.”
“It’s not about Nina,” I said, voice low. “She wanted to use me. Twist what happened into clickbait. I’m not giving her that satisfaction. This is different.”
Her brows pinched.
“Different how?”
“Because it’s me asking you.” I leaned in, steady, relentless. “Because it’s the only way my family’s truth gets told without somebody else cashing in. You said you wanted to be a writer. You can be. Not by bleeding me dry for Nina, but by standing with me and telling the story the way it deserves to be told. Yours. Mine. Ours. Cut her out of it. Own it.”
She shook her head, clutching the card tighter.
