Chapter 14 · The Understudy's First Truth

The red door stood open behind Maeve, its frame bleeding a thin line of light across the stage.

Beyond it, her mother screamed.

Not cried. Not called her name. Screamed the way patients screamed when their bodies finally understood what their minds had been refusing to accept.

“Maeve, don’t let him sit down!”

The voice came from the kitchen at 214 Kestrel Avenue. Her mother’s voice. Raw, breathless, unmistakable.

Then another voice answered from the darkness behind the door.

Maeve’s voice.

“Dad, you’re late.”

Her stomach dropped.

The figure wearing her face stepped fully onto the stage. It held the old bone-handled knife in one hand, the blade dark with something thicker than blood. Its hair hung over one eye exactly as Maeve’s did when she was too tired to pin it back. Even the small scar beneath its lower lip was there.

But the thing smiled without warmth.

“Come home,” it said in Maeve’s voice.

Behind her, Eli made a strangled sound.

Maeve spun around. Black threads had tightened around his throat, cutting into his skin. He was on one knee beside the painted white mark at center stage, fingers clawing at nothing.