Chapter 19 · Burned Proof

The boy on the film held the match like it weighed nothing.

Like he hadn’t just burned my whole life down.

I stopped breathing again. Not because of the smoke this time. Because sixteen-year-old Julian Cross stood behind my father in our old kitchen, his face pale and sharp under the projector flicker, his hand lifted with a flame trembling between two fingers.

The film clicked.

My father’s voice came through the speaker, thin and warped.

“Good girl, Nia. I knew you’d come home eventually.”

Sera swore under her breath and raised her gun at the ceiling like she could shoot a voice.

Julian stood beside me, one hand braced against the cracked wall. Blood ran down his sleeve from the graze on his arm. The black curse under his skin had crawled over his jaw now, dark veins reaching toward his mouth.

I barely looked at him.

Couldn’t.

The match on the screen burned lower.

“You were there,” I said.

Julian didn’t answer right away.

That was answer enough.

I turned on him so fast my shoulder hit the old dining table. Dust jumped off it. “You were there.”

“Nia—”

“No.” My voice came out raw.