Chapter 7: Psycho step sister.

The neighborhood was quiet. Manicured lawns. Sprinklers hissing. A dog barking somewhere in the distance. Devane walked with her hands in her pockets, shoulders hunched, pace slow.

Clarisse walked beside her, biting inside her cheeks and glanced at her through her side eye.

The silence between them was heavy but not hostile. Like a bruise that hadn't decided whether to heal or spread.

They reached a small park at the end of the street. It was empty.

A swing set. A rusted slide. Devane sat on one of the swings and pulled out a cigaretteand lit it. The smoke curled upward and vanished into the grey sky.

Clarisse sat on the swing next to her. The chains creaked.

"I don't know why I stay with him," Clarisse said quietly. The confession came out of nowhere. She hadn't planned it. Hadn't even known it was true until the words left her mouth. "He's—everyone thinks he's perfect. Basketball captain. Good grades. My aunt loves him. The school loves him. We're supposed to be the 'it' couple." She spat the word like it tasted bad. "And I'm supposed to be grateful. A girl like me, with a guy like him. I should be grateful."

Devane exhaled smoke, stared ahead of her and said nothing.

"He tells me I'm difficult. He tells me I'm never fine. He tells me I should eat more and then in the same breath he tells me I look tighter and I don't—" Her voice cracked. She pressed her fist against her mouth. Breathed through her nose. "I don't know which one he wants. I don't know which one I want. I don't know anything."

The swing creaked. A bird called.

Devane flicked ash into the grass.

"You know what I think?" she said finally. Her voice was low and calm "I think you know exactly what you want. You're just too scared to say it."

Clarisse turned to look at her. Devane's profile was sharp against the pale sky. She wasn't looking at Clarisse. She was looking straight ahead, at the slide, at the rust that had slowly destroyed it

"And what do you think I want?"

Devane took a long drag. Held it. Let it go.

"Not him."

She stood up. Dropped the cigarette. Crushed it under her boot.

"We should head back. It's going to rain."

She started walking. Clarisse stayed on the swing for a moment longer, watching Devane's back retreat down the path. Broad shoulders. Confident stride. The ghost of smoke trailing behind her like a secret.

Clarisse got up, sighed dejectedly and followed Devane.

°°°°°

The rain hit just as they reached the front door. A sudden, violent downpour that turned the sky black and hammered the roof like fists. They stood in the foyer, dripping, catching their breath. Clarisse's hair was plastered to her face. Devane's leather jacket was soaked through.

Then the doorbell rang.

They looked at each other.

"Expecting someone?" Devane asked.

"No. Marcus already left. I don't—"

The doorbell rang again. Three short bursts. Insistent. Then a fist pounded on the wood.

"Clarisse! I know you're in there!"

Marcus.

Devane's expression didn't change. But something in the air around her went still. Very still. Like the moment before a match strikes.

She crossed to the door in three strides and yanked it open.

Marcus stood on the doorstep. Soaked. His hoodie was drenched. His hair was a wet mess. His smile was gone—replaced by something harder, something uglier. His eyes were red. Clarisse couldn't tell if it was from rain or rage.

"Took you long enough." He tried to push past Devane, into the house. Devane didn't move. Her body filled the doorway. Solid and immovable. His chest bounced off her shoulder and he stumbled back a step. "What the—"

"You're not coming in," Devane said.

"This is my girlfriend's house."

"This is my house." Devane's voice was calm. Dead calm. The kind of calm that came before violence. "And you're not coming in."

Marcus's eyes flicked past her, found Clarisse in the shadows of the foyer. His jaw tightened. "Clarisse. What the hell is this? I forgot my phone and your psycho stepsister won't let me in to get it."

Clarisse didn't move. Her heart was a drum. Her hands were fists. She walked to the couch, found his phone wedged between the cushions, and brought it to the door. She held it out through the gap between Devane's body and the doorframe.

Marcus stared at her outstretched hand. Didn't take it.

"Come outside," he said. "We need to talk."

"We can talk later."

"No. Now."

"Marcus—"

"Now, Clarisse. Or we're done. I mean it. Done. After everything I've put up with—"

"Put up with?"

The words left her mouth before she could stop them. They hung in the air, sharp and cold. Devane's head turned slightly. A flicker of something in her peripheral vision. Clarisse felt her own spine straighten. Her own chin lift.

"Yeah," Marcus said. His voice was ugly now. Stripped of charm. "Put up with. The moods. The drama. The whole 'I can't eat this, I can't eat that' thing. You think any other guy would stick around for that? You think anyone else would want—"

"Enough."

Devane's voice. Quiet. Final.

"Excuse me?" Marcus stepped forward, chest puffed, jaw jutting. "I wasn't talking to you. I was talking to my—"

"She's not your anything right now." Devane shifted her weight. Just slightly. Just enough to block him completely. "Take the phone. Leave."

"Or what?"

Devane didn't answer. She didn't need to. The silence was answer enough.

Marcus looked at her. Looked at Clarisse. Something flickered in his eyes—uncertainty, maybe, or the first cold touch of fear. He snatched the phone from Clarisse's hand. His fingers brushed hers. They were cold. Wet. Unfamiliar.

"You're making a huge mistake," he said. His voice was lower now. Quieter. Somehow more dangerous. "You're nothing without me, Clarisse. You know that. Everyone knows that. You're just a crazy, starving, broken little—"

"Close the door."

Devane said in a quiet but dismissive tone.

Clarisse closed the door.

She pressed her palm flat against the wood and listened to Marcus's voice continue on the other side—muffled now, fading as the rain swallowed his words. His car door slammed. His engine roared. The sound faded into the storm.

Her legs buckled.

She caught herself on the doorframe. Her palm slapped the wood. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Her chest heaved. She pressed her forehead to the cool door and squeezed her eyes shut. Her stomach churned. Her throat burned. The voice in her head was screaming—you ruined it, you're nothing, he's right, he's right, he's right—and she dug her nails into the doorframe until the wood bit back.

Devane didn't catch her. Didn't touch her. She just stood there, a few feet away, water dripping from her jacket onto the tile.

"You did that," Devane said. Her voice was strange. Not soft. Not hard. Something in between. "You. Not me."

Clarisse opened her eyes. Turned her head. Devane's face was still unreadable. But there was something in the way she was standing—less coiled, less braced—that hadn't been there before.

"I don't know what I just did," Clarisse whispered.

"Yeah, you do."

Devane turned and walked toward the garage. Her hand was on the door when Clarisse spoke.

"Devane?"

She paused. Didn't turn around.

"What you said on the swings. That I know what I want."

Silence.

"Did you mean it?"

The rain hammered the roof. The garage door creaked.

"Ask me again tomorrow," Devane said. "If you still care what I think."

The door opened. Closed. She was gone.

Clarisse stood alone in the foyer, rain dripping from her hair onto the tile, Devane's words echoing in her skull. Her jaw ached from clenching. She forced it loose. Forced herself to breathe. Her reflection stared back at her from the dark window—a gaunt girl with wet hair and red eyes and something new flickering in her expression. Something that looked almost like hunger.

She walked to the kitchen instead. Her bare feet slapped the cold tile.