CHAPTER TWELVE ✹
Favourite Daughter (Pt. I)

  𝕴n the spare bedroom of the Chateau, there was a well-loved dresser; put together painstakingly by planks of scratched cedar, rusting nails, and the roughened hands of a father to not only his own son, but his two best friends. Inside of the dresser (painted on the sides in cheap acrylics with all sorts of shapes—daisies, cresting waves, spirals) were two drawers. The first was slovenly filled by random tees, boardshorts, the odd sweatshirt, one, singular towel, and, most recently, an Sig Sauer P229 Pistol. The second drawer belonged to Iris Mariano, and had done since the first blow-out with her mother that drove her out of the house.

  A girl, eleven at the time, showed up on Big John's doorstep in the middle of a storm, but the look in her swollen eyes was far more mercurial than anything happening in the sky that afternoon. He let her in, tucked her under his good wing, and made her a tea—excessively milky and saccharine enough to give her toothache, yet it was the most fatherly anyone had ever treated her. John B and JJ returned from surfing the surge to find their friend bundled up in a threadbare blanket, sat next to a man double her size—bambi-eyed herself back then, her hands quivering around the ceramic of a mug, but Iris was warmer than she had felt all day. A son, Big John had. Two, in fact. Iris was a daughter: almost. Lamblike girl, eyes just like Ward Cameron's—she had Tannyhill to run to, but it was the Chateau's doorstep she turned up on when times got tough. That's why Big John built that dresser. That's why the second drawer in it would always belong to Iris Mariano.

  Inside of it, a whole litany of her. The skimpy scraps of material to make up bikinis, assorted items of denim, babydoll tops, the handful of dresses she managed to nab from thrift-shops (or, in sweeter days, Sarah's wardrobe), and pinched tees from the boys. This way, there's always pieces of Iris in the Chateau. Souvenirs of her, in case John B ever decided that he was sick of having her around; Iris would still persist.

  She liked to haunt, remember.

  Right now, Iris was lingering in that purgatory between her mother's favour and ill-gotten heart—where she wasn't entirely sure where she existed. A tall child with no place to go. So, her flesh and bones and veins attach abnormally with the pipes and walls and power-lines of the Chateau, and it's there she'll stay until her mother was ready to love her again. It's the clothes there that would hang off of her body, rather than the buried hand-me-downs in her wardrobe back at Carmen's place.

  Kie put her outfit together for her that morning.

  Iris would wear those clothes for the rest of the day, knowing the fibres of them clung with Kiara Carrera's pistachio and blood orange perfume—knowing her friend had devotedly flattened out the creases of the vintage halter-neck; because she loved her, because she cared. It's a sweet outfit—that black top with the spaghetti straps lacing at the nape of her neck, dangling down the length of her spine, and the smattering of vintage flowers; the denim miniskirt to go, a mermaid stitched onto the back pocket in intricate embroidery that could only be handspun. Underneath, Iris wore her bikini—it was very rare that she or Kie would leave the house without one underneath (out of the water, they were nothing)—and she was so sure that it once belonged to Sarah. It was abstractly patterned; with sunflowers, toadstools, a blue unicorn, and vintage sundials.

  Right now, sunbathing on the deck of the HMS Pogue, that bikini was all Iris had on. Her miniskirt was being premeditatedly used as a pillow to keep her neck propped upright, but her top was dangling from the back pocket of JJ's trunks. He swore that it wouldn't fall out, and told her it was a fashion statement—all the tourons are doing it, sunshine, he said as tucked the gossamer material of it away for 'safe-keeping,' Iris lounging herself out on the hull to catch some rays. Oh, well. She trusted him. If JJ wanted some girl's top to be hanging from his shorts as they cruised by pretty kooks and pogues alike on the marsh, so be it. As long as it didn't get snatched by a bull shark or a gator, Iris didn't care. In fact, a part of her actually kind of liked it. The possessive part of her that she kept hidden behind pinkish knots and a short temper, that was.

  "Does it hurt?"

  Iris blinked, eyes skipping over to Pope with a small frown. "Like—when I fell from heaven? Is this a pick-up line?"

  "No," he said laconically, "your knees. The scrapes?"

  "Oh!"

  Flustered, Iris glanced at her bandaged knees and swallowed her heart. Her knees were fine. Even without Pope conscientiously sterilising the tiny wounds that morning, tweezing out gravel and dead skin, and covering the red abrasions with butterfly plasters kept in Kie's emergency first aid-kit, her knees would've been fine. Pope, as it turned, was incredibly stubborn, and Iris figured he wouldn't have let her on the boat that morning until he cleaned the cuts.

  "Yeah," she rasped, "they're fine, Clement."

  Pope nodded firmly. "Good. That's good."

  Weirdo, she thought to herself fondly.

  JJ whistled then, jutting his jaw at something over his shoulder. "You guys see that? That's the Malibu 240-MXZ, the world's finest wakesetter—number one in luxury, quality, and performance," he mimicked the haughty voice of a salesman. "200k, easy."

  In a vague interest, Iris glanced down the slope of her nose through her drooping sunglasses, and swept her eyes over the wharf to the flagship in question. She'd love to be the humble kind of girl who thought it was too ostentatious, shrug off the jealous chip on her shoulder, and drawl something apathetic and blasé. Only, Iris wasn't modest, and she was the furthest girl from apathy on the Cut. The boat looked nice.

  It's only fitting that, stood at the wheel of it, all sunkissed, golden-haired, and belonging to the finer things, was her sister.

  Iris swallowed grief as easily as mouthfuls of water.

  "We chose the wrong parents," muttered Pope resentfully, craning his neck to watch it cruise past.

  "I hate to break it to you guys, but that's Topper and his girlfriend," Kie drawled.

  Sarah's a bit like this wretched mirror that Iris couldn't avoid, only the reflection's all warped, shattered, and showed her everything that might've been hers if their father wasn't the man he was. She saw Iris on the HMS Pogue; with her blistered knees, a bikini that used to be hers, and a sheen of sweat on the collarbones that were gaunt enough to gather water, and plucked the shades off of her face, pushing them up into her hairline. The shame of her sister's gaze consumed Iris—it was as though Sarah's stare made an animal out of her, flayed her open at the belly. Sarah's fingers prodded invisibly at all of Iris's insecurities, calling them by name: blackened lungs, bruised kneecaps, it was enough to drive her mad.

  The most humbling thought was that Sarah Cameron had no idea she was doing this. Since they were girls, Iris toed this line of jealousy and sisterhood so precariously that it was almost idolatry now. Sarah wasn't infallible. Sarah didn't always get what she wanted. Sarah's mother was dead and Iris's own ravaged the very existence of her until she was wasted bones. Still, Iris hated her more than anything—envied her more than anyone. A rotten girl with a rotten mind that worshipped slash begrudged her half-sister for things that had never once made Sarah miss a blink of sleep.

  It's humiliating.

  It eats Iris from the inside out.

  "You don't have to act like you can't see us, bitch," snarled Kie, glaring at the back of her.

  "I can't believe you share DNA with her," Pope mumbled in disbelief.

  Iris reclined back onto her makeshift, denim pillow and ignored the burning in her ribs; the flames of her own spite lapping at her like a barbed tongue of a childhood monster. "She's no sister of mine," she said through hungry teeth. Sensing their discomforts, Iris gnawed at the flesh of her cheek and sighed. "So, what are we gonna do about this map, Bee?"

  "I'd love to say I have the slightest clue, Irie, but, I don't," replied John B, nettled. "I wish he left more to go off. Like, great, we have a map and some coordinates—how are we meant to figure out where those coordinates are?"

  Almost bashful, JJ raised his hand, then his shoulder in a contrite shrug. "I mean, I've got an idea. Dunno if it'll check out, but—"

  "We'll do it," he hastened to accept. "Anything."

  They returned to the Chateau, and John B didn't let them linger around long enough to so much as use the bathroom. There must've been a five-minute window between docking the HMS Pogue and John B ushering them all into the Twinkie for JJ's grand plan; which, for whatever reason, involved a drive through Figure Eight to the country club. Iris swore that it was thanks to some invisible, exacting force, as it twisted the knife into sore wounds that she was already failing to nurse—she always had the solipsistic tendency of thinking that she was so centrifugal to such things.

  John B was just parking up the Twinkie when Iris's phone vibrated in her pocket, almost ceremonially. It was as if she had entered another world, for her other family to suddenly remember that she existed. A text from her little sister, she observed wryly.

  WHEEZE. hey are you coming to the beach???
  WHEEZE. sarah said she was gonna ask you buttttt ur not here!!!
  WHEEZE. again lol

  "Wheezie?" Kie asked over Iris's shoulder, startling her.

  Iris lurched, jamming her phone back into her shorts. "Erm, yeah. Apparently, Sarah was meant to invite me to the beach with them."

  "And, now, you look like the bad sister for not turning up, when, in reality, Sarah didn't even bother asking," said Kie, nodding in understanding.

  "Pretty much."

  "God, she's a bitch."

  "Tell me about it."

  "All right, keep a look out," JJ warned dramatically, cocking the hammer of his pistol, "we're behind enemy lines. Well, Iris ain't—but I'm gonna go out on a whim here and say that her membership's close to termination..."

  "Real nice, JJ," sneered Iris, flicking the nape of his neck.

  John B snatched the Twinkie's keys from the ignition, then first noticed JJ's gun, and seethed. "Oh, for—JJ, c'mon, put it away."

  "Hey," Pope swooped in, hopping out of the Twinkie to drape his arm nonchalantly on the passenger side door and jut his elbow against JJ's, "I predict that bringing a weapon to a four-star hotel will likely cause more problems than they solve."

  "Thank you, Pope," said JJ satirically.

  Indignant, Kie shoved her head between the two headrests to slant him with a sterner expression than the others could all muster. "I swear to God, I'm gonna throw that thing in the ocean, JJ. Put it back."

  When he continued to ignore everyone's threats, tilting his head innocently to rake his eyes almost hungrily over the gun, Iris swept forward to snatch it from him.

  "You can't grab a gun like that, Iris!" JJ reprimanded, violently turning around to watch her bury it in the bench-seat at the back of the van. "You gotta treat her nice—like a lady."

  Iris snorted at him, hopping out the slide-door in tandem with Kie. "Like you know how to treat a lady."

  "I can show you, if you'd like," he offered as he exited the van himself. He kept his arm extended above her, white-knuckling the passenger door; smirk all dimpled and teasing.

  Iris physically felt one of her eyes twitch as she glared up at the boy belligerently. Her tongue split against her canine, the taste of blood swelling in her mouth.

  "Shut up," she tempered.

  "Mhm. Okay, sunshine. Oh, wait—can't forget my badge." Then, JJ was leaning over her, overwhelmingly warm as his chest brushed hers, and snatched his lanyard from the ajar glove compartment. Without putting even an inch of distance between them, he clipped it to the waistband of his shorts before raking his eyes back over her, a certain mischief there that had Iris's teeth returning to her self-inflicted wound. Finally, with a wink, "Professional busboy."

  "So hot," Iris taunted, stoic.

  "And I know it, sunshine."

  Not before giving a lock of her hair a toying yank, JJ stalked away from the beloved Volkswagen. The others, not as unnerved as Iris by JJ's behaviour—begrudgingly, this was something they learned to stomach (she wasn't as lucky)—followed on after him.

  "So, what are we doing here?" Pope finally asked.

  "We're getting on the internet, 'cause only rich people have electricity right now," JJ explained. Iris had to give it him, it wasn't a bad idea—not that she'd vocalise it. Her jaw hardened at the slight self-satisfied swagger in his step as he led them to a side entrance that she didn't even know existed. The thought of his ego bloating any more made her feel sick. "This way!" he jauntily called over his shoulder.

  "I don't like this," Pope mumbled to her. "JJ—doing something right."

  Iris nodded collusively. "Neither. It's, like, a cardinal sin. Do something about it, John Paul."

  "I guess we could swing by your old man's place...Use the internet there. He's bound to have electricity by now, surely—"

  "Inflating JJ's ego it is," she cut in, nauseous.

  As soon as they slipped through the fire-exit into the country club's kitchens, Iris was hit by the palatable smell of a searing filet mignon. It was enough to overwhelm her senses, the bustling of linecooks, frantic servers, and the mouth-watering food being prepped—gulf seafood cocktails, bacon-wrapped scallops, stuffed mushrooms, crisp fruits and vegetables. Her stomach lurched at the lot of it. Suddenly, all Iris wanted was to be in her mom's house, a sweet girl again at the farmhouse table in the kitchen, eating her mother's love from secondhand china with grubby hands and a warmth in her.

  "Matt!" JJ hollered, lifting his hand in a wave. "What's up, bro?"

  Matt, "from work," was this linecook at the country club who smoked Marlboro Reds and could probably charm an abbess sworn to chastity. Iris had heard plenty about him—from JJ at first, his mouth running a-mile-a-minute as he blithered about the "cool chef" at work that fed him and had all the pretty waitresses swooning; later on, from Magda, who spoke about him with enough of an irritated inflection to have Iris chalking it up to her being attracted to him (though, she's never admit it). Seeing him now in the clinical light of the kitchen, his apron loose around his hips, a splatter of pomodoro sauce staining the threadbare tee he definitely shouldn't be wearing in a workplace, smiling at JJ all brotherly and charismatic, Iris got it. His mousy hair was just the right level of dishevelled for him to get away with it, and the single dimple put there in his stubbled cheek by that crooked grin of his was probably what got even Magda—stiff-upper-lip, deserves better than anyone, no-nonsense Magda—to crack.

  Yeah, Iris got it.

  "What's up, Maybank?" Matt's in their space, and he had that angst scent of cigarettes, his job, and dull, sandalwood cologne she imagined all the linecooks in there carried. He towered over her, though, something that not all of them could say. The kind of tall that she was pretty sure he didn't even notice her as he all but reached over Iris's head to clasp JJ's hand in a sharp handshake. "How's it going?"

  "Oh, ya know. It's going. This is my crew," said JJ animatedly. "You already know Bree, and that's Kie, Pope—"

  "Magda's little brother, right?"

  Pope looked like he might throw up. "Erm, how...—"

  "She talks about you all the time," Matt, from work, told him. "Hey, don't worry, man. It's all good. She's real proud of ya."

  "Oh."

  "—and Iris," JJ interjected, patting her hard on the back, making her jolt and swing round to glare at him viciously.

  Now, Matt's not looking at her so fondly. That easy, flighty grin of his slipped into something not so charming, and he was sizing her up like less of a friend of a friend, more so a sun-bleached fly that had just buzzed its way into his kitchen.

  "Iris Cameron, I'm guessing?" It wasn't said with the warmth he used to mention Magda. It was short, sulky—even gruff. "Yeah, I went to school with your brother. Both of 'em, actually. Real nice guys."

  "Oh, man, nah. Iris ain't like them," JJ testified, smoothly draping an arm round her shoulders and pulling her into him. "Iris is a pogue. Ain't that right, sunshine?"

  Iris grimaced, peeking a side-long glance at Matt, who definitely look convinced. "I don't really, uh, talk to them. Anymore."

  "Your own flesh and blood?" mused Matt, from work. He sounded a bit like he was trying to keep lighthearted—he had a reputation of being nonchalant to uphold, one he couldn't exactly besmirch by dirty-mouthing a sixteen-year-old girl for the sin of having brothers he couldn't stand—but it's rasped out in hoarse disbelief. As if a Cameron girl could ever be a pogue. "I find that hard to believe, ma'am."

  Ma'am? Ma'am, like she's some kind of kook socialite wife that he was chewing it out with over the temperature of her hors d'oeuvres?

  "I don't!" Iris insisted then, feeling belittled.

  His eyebrows jump in wry amazement, not expecting bite. That smile was back; more teasing, more lopsided. "Oh, I'm sure. All right, then," Matt, from work, sighed drolly, "any friend of Maybank's is a friend of mine."

  "I'm flattered," she said derisively, eyes narrowed.

  "You better be, sunshine," JJ chimed, tightening the arm he persistently kept around her, "Matty boy doesn't call just anybody his friend. He's very selective."

  Iris squinted warily. "I'm sure he is."

  Matt, not insulted, laughed at her affably. "She's a real keeper, Maybank."

  "We're not—"

  "Ain't she just?" he grinned crookedly, squishing her cheek between his index and thumb.

  "JJ," John B interjected then, impatient and ruddy-cheeked, "we're on mission, remember? Enemy lines, all that."

  "Right, yes! I knew we weren't just here to see your pretty face, Matt. Well, we'll be seeing ya." JJ untangled himself from Iris, cutting a sharp corner past another linecook. "Mama L!" he said affectionately, reaching across a woman languishing over a chopping-board to pinch a carrot stick.

  "No, JJ," 'Mama L' chastised, backhanding his knuckles with a wooden spoon.

  "My bad," he chuckled.

  The others were following after him, but Iris was rooted to the ceramic tile underfoot next to Matt.

  "Hey," he said to her, sensing her prolonged discomfort with a friendly nudge, "no hard feelings, right, Cameron? You know how they are—your brothers. It's, like, instinct to be wary. I'm sure you're a good'n if you're dating a guy like JJ."

  Iris shook her head, abrasive. "I'm not—JJ's not my boyfriend."

  "Oh." Matt, from work, seemed genuinely surprised by this revelation. He even straightened back up to his usual height, almost sizing her up again as his arms folded over his torso and his mouth returned to a small frown. "Really? See, I could've swore he's got your picture in his locker. Yeah, erm," he scratched at the scruff of hair on his neck's nape, poking at stubbornly through his baseball cap, "knew you from that, before I saw the Cameron in you. S'a compliment, really—recognised as JJ Maybank's missus before a kook. But," a deep laugh bubbled up from his chest, and he was snatching up a dishtowel from the side to sling it over his shoulder, "if you say that you're not dating—"

  "We're not," she asserted.

  He showed her hands in surrender, smirking. "All right, all right. You're not! I'll see you around, Cameron."

  That didn't make her feel as giddy as it might've five minutes ago. Instead of swooning away, dreamily thinking about an older guy who chain-smoked and hated her brothers, Iris sulked out of the kitchen with a tail tucked between her legs.

  "There you are," said Kie, splitting away from the boys ahead to tangle their fingers and haul her along after them. "Where'd you go? Was you talking to the cute chef?"

  "Was he cute? I didn't notice," Iris muttered sourly.

  Kie poked her in the ribcage. "You know he was," she said pointedly. "Is this about him bringing up Alex and Rafe?"

  "M'not saying—"

  "Yep. It is. Listen, Irie," Kiara sighed, "everyone that matters knows you're nothing like them. Especially Rafe," she added emphatically. "You're a Mariano. Not a Cameron. Yeah?"

  "I love you, Kie."

  JJ led them to this side-room full of Dell computers that they definitely weren't meant to be trespassing, and pounced into the room with vigilant hawk-eyes and a rapidly craning neck, no doubt hunting for security. When he judged that the coast was clear, he beckoned them all in. Pope was the first to scramble inside, practically falling in headfirst as he fumbled for purchase of a desk chair.

  "Sweet Lord, the internet," he praised devotedly, tumbling into the first one he reached, "I've missed you."

  "Lemme get in there, I've gotta check out my Insta models," said JJ insolently.

  Iris kicked him in the calf. "Don't be gross."

  "We don't have the time for that, JJ," reprimanded Kie, slipping into a second swivel-chair.

  John B slapped down the map next to Pope's elbow as he got up Google Earth. "Here—my dad's map."

  "Coordinates, please?" Pope requested, Iris lingering over his shoulder.

  "34°, 57', 30" north—75°, 55', 42" west." John B leaned in over Pope's other shoulder, a bit like two cartoonish omens, and the five of them blinked owlishly at the screen as it narrowed in on the Point. "Boom, continental shift. Right there."

  "Okay, well, if it's off the deep end, it's not gonna be much of a treasure hunt, is it?" wisecracked Pope, exchanging a dry look with him. Sighing, he started to zoom in on the red arrow, his fingers crossed hopefully over the mouse, "C'mon, baby, come on."

  A smattering of tottering footsteps and laughter went by the hallway outside, seizing JJ. Iris sensed him shift next to her, slanting him a tiny smile.

  "Hey, it's fine," she reassured. "They're not coming in here."

  "M'gonna lose my job. M'gonna lose my goddamn job, Iris—"

  "No," she said tersely, "you're not—"

  "We're all gonna be employed and broke."

  "—shit," swore John B excitedly, stealing back their curiosity, "it's on the high side! It's only 900 feet."

  "That's not too deep," JJ insisted.

  "Is that," Kie hesitated, eyebrows furrowing at them, "doable, or something?"

  JJ nodded with the excitement of a dog that heard the word "walk." "Totally doable."

  "Oh, okay," said Pope sarcastically, swivelling around in the chair to fix him with a slighting look, "will we be taking your personal submarine, or?"

  "How do you know this, Mr Dive Master?" John B challenged.

  "Yeah, let's not forget you thought the bends were backshots, like, two days ago," Iris mocked.

  "I didn't—hey, you didn't know what it was either, all right? Look, the salvage yard," said JJ, as if it was blatant. "They've got a drone that can drop 1,000. It has a 360 camera and everything. It's for, like, deep dives and stuff. It's exactly what we need it."

  "And, can your dad get his grimy little hands on it?" asked John B, the lilt in his voice suggesting that he already knew the answer.

  JJ grimaced. "Well, my dad's grimy little hands got his ass fired, so. I guess the salvage captain frowns on showing up shitfaced, turns out."

  "No kidding?" whistled Iris.

  "But the drone's there," he added quickly, as everyone started to deflate in despair, "it's in the impound yard out back."

  Kiara met John B's eyes, an impish smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "How much did you say was on the Royal Merchant, again?"

  "400 mil."

  "400 mil," JJ echoed, musing.

  "Fuck this." Blanching, Pope bolted out of his chair for the door, squaring his arms outright. "No. Absolutely not. Absolutely not, we're not—"

  Determinedly, Kie stalked right over and pried his arms down to his sides. "Pope, move!"

  "Maybe we should hear him out," said Iris, chagrined.

  "Of course you'd say that," JJ retorted childishly, flanking after Kie and manoeuvring Pope aside. "C'mon, man. 400 mil."

  In anguish, Pope floundered as the others all breezed out of the room. "Can't we do anything legal for money?"

  "C'mon, buddy," said John B, unapologetic as he patted his shoulder and slipped through the door.

  "Hey, erm, you guys might have to do this one without me," Iris piped up as they scarpered along the corridor.

  JJ almost gave himself whiplash with how fast he snapped his head around to blink at her. "What? Are you for real, right now? Is this seriously because you're afraid—"

  "I'm not afraid, JJ," she exclaimed impatiently. "I just..." Remorseful, she cut a hurried glance across at John B, whose frown deepened at the wince she spared him, "I need you to drop me off at Tannyhill, Bee."

  He almost choked on his own spit. "Tannyhill? What, why...—?"

  "There's something I need to do, s'all. Hey, I can meet up with you all later?" Iris offered shamefully.

  "Traitor!" JJ accused, just as they burst outside into fresh air. Still, being back outside did nothing for the tautness in her lungs. "Are you seriously ditching us to go play kook at Palace Cameron?"

  "JJ, leave her alone," John B reproached. They had reached the Twinkie, but he extended a hand to catch Iris's shoulder, rooting her to the asphalt. She shrunk under his stare, heavy and brotherly—the kind Alex might've given her years ago, when she suggested doing something outrageously impulsive. It was enough to splinter the wishbone of her pride. "What's this really about, Irie?"

  As if a noose dangled from her throat, Iris's head hung in shame. The others were ducking into the Twinkie, enthusing about treasure, the thrill of breaking the law, and how they were going to get into the salvage yard. Iris was in the bear-trap of her father's warm hand on her shoulder, and she could've swore that one of the women they hastened past in the country club was wearing Sarah's perfume.

  Gnawing at the chafed skin of her bottom lip, Iris lamely shrugged and blurted, "I dunno, Bee, I just need to talk to my old man. S'all."

  "Okay," said John B, resigned. "All right, Irie," he sighed, motioning for the van, "I'll drop you off. But, hey—you'll meet us later, won't you?"

  And there it was again. That glimpse of Alex.

  Iris worried that it was all in her head, that her brother was merely haunting her, worming his malignant way under her skin.

  "Yeah," she said shakily, trying for a smile, "yeah, 'course, Bee."

  He beamed at her. All teeth and love. It carved Iris down the middle, left her for the bugs. Abashed, she scurried round the front of the van to slip into the passenger door, and threw a splintery grin over her shoulder to the others in the back, but she spent the rest of the gut-wrenching journey to Tannyhill fiddling with the rings on the knots of her knuckles and eating her own heart out.

  They split as soon as her feet touched concrete, and Iris wasn't sure if she was glad for it. She hated it there. The air rejected her like a bad blood transfusion, or an organ transplant that didn't fit in the body. Her being here was ruining a sacred place where a Mariano did not belong. As her converse, dirtied, old, moth-eaten, traipsed over the lawn, she was half-surprised that flowers didn't rot as she walked by—that a gnarled, skeleton hand didn't reach up from the earth to swallow her into it.

  Iris was dramatic. She knew that. But, being here strangled her. This place wasn't for her. A sinner inside the hallowed walls of a cathedral, almost. It's hungry for her in a way that nobody else really was, but for all the wrong reasons.

  The foyer's hollow when she walked in.

  No mother's there to greet her. No father, either.

  She went deeper into the veins of it, seeping through hallways like a haemorrhage. She swore that even the paintings nailed to the walls didn't want her here, and that their oil-stroked, pallid eyes glare at her back.

  It's a ghost town, for the most part. Iris was starting to think nobody was home when she heard the violent sound of someone emptying their guts as she strolled past one of the downstairs bathrooms, and she backtracked. A tiny sob slipped through the crack in the door, miserable and girlish—it sounded like Wheezie.

  The big sister in her couldn't simply walk away. Not with the shame of her text still burning a hole into the denim of her pocket, lingering and unanswered where it sat forlornly on her phone. Iris touched the doorknob and shouted out her name—it's Louisa that she called her. Wheezie felt too familiar. It betrayed her throat.

  "Come in," her sister groaned.

  Wincing, Iris stepped inside. The room was swollen with the turning smell of vomit and strips of sunlight from the shuttered blinds. Knelt devotedly on ceramic tile, her dainty, sweetened hand bunching Wheezie's unruly curls into a makeshift ponytail, was Sarah, and it was enough to make Iris want to split. But, she couldn't. Invisible ropes entrenched her to the bathroom floor, and her heart jerked up to her throat as Wheezie doubled over the toilet again, retching up bile. Iris felt like she could sink to her bandaged knees and start doing the same thing, but she crammed that all down.

  "Oh, God," Sarah gagged, tearing her eyes away. Inadvertently, they settled on Iris, dilating in surprise. "Iris. You're here."

  "Yeah." Iris inched closer into the room, gingerly shutting the door. "I was, erm—I'm looking for Dad, but...—You okay, Louisa?"

  Wheezie whimpered into her hand, distraught. "No."

  Sarah rolled her eyes fondly and flushed the toilet. "So, what have we learned?"

  "Never mix vodka with Crystal Light," she said dolefully. She swept the back of her hand against her sweaty forehead, before retching up again.

  "That's good," Sarah told her, caressing her back in soft circles, "get it all up."

  "Ugh." Wheezie swayed until she was sat on her haunches, smearing her mouth against her knuckles. "Please, don't tell Dad. Either of you." Her owlish eyes bobbed over to Iris, blinking desperately at her. "Please, Iris."

  "Hey, we've all been there," she offered. Iris's knees felt like they might buckle as she crept closer, and it was almost softening to squat at the toilet-side. Smiling fragilely, she let her thumb smooth over Wheezie's damp cheekbone, collecting a stray eyelash. "I won't tell him. Swear."

  Her grin was wan, but satisfied. "Thanks, Irie."

  "Well," Sarah interjected, mischievous, "I have one condition."

  Wheezie glared at her witheringly. "What's that?"

  "You cover for me sneaking out with Topper tonight," she said. When Wheezie sighed in exasperation, eyes reaching up to the ceiling, Sarah let her palms kiss in prayer. "Please?"

  "Fine."

  "Mhm. Do you promise?"

  Innocent, Wheezie offered her pinkie. "I promise."

  Sarah did not have chance to lock it, as Wheezie was lurching forward again, dry-heaving this time. Iris knew this part all too well—when you're already hollowed-out, and there's nothing left in your stomach but acid and aching muscles from throwing up. A twinge of pity pinched at the soft sinews Iris still had in her heart for Wheezie. It's the kind of blackening love that Iris had spent the better part of her life trying to amputate. Still, it persisted.

  "I'll go and fetch you a glass of water, yeah?" Iris tendered, standing up again. Sarah's eyes followed her like a hunter's; Iris felt like butchered prey.

  "God, please," sobbed Wheezie, jutting out her bottom lip. "I'll love you forever and ever if you do."

  Iris saluted. "I'll be right back."

  Then, she slipped out of the bathroom and headed for the kitchen. Her head was so full of thoughts about her sisters that she almost completely forgot why she was there at Tannyhill in the first place—until she heard it.

  Indignant, balked; the unmistakable sound of her father delivering a lecture unto Rafe. It halted Iris in her tracks.

  They were on the veranda, having it out. Iris, heart in her throat, tried to make herself imperceptible as she crept along the skirting-boards to the doorway, stalling there.

  "—you said you would take care of it, Rafe," Ward ranted. It was berating, ruthless, and it could only be Rafe he was talking to like this. "Did you take care of it? Where are they?"

  Her brother's voice resembled a scolded child's when it left him, boyish and humiliated, "They're on back order."

  "Yeah." The scoff lacerated the back of their dad's throat, followed by the exhale of a sofa cushion. Iris could only imagine Ward sinking back into a chair as his head shook reproachfully at his second son. "Yeah, of course they are."

  "There was a hurricane," Rafe defended lamely.

  "God, Rafe, why can't you be more like your brother, huh?" Ward demanded next. He went for the jugular—as he always did with his kids. He sucker-punched Rafe exactly where he knew it would hurt the worse: his tenderest bruise, just like Iris's, was Alex. Alexander Eyre, in all his bruising glory. From anklebone to scalp, Ward measured the length of Rafe's spineless, trembly insecurities and prodded. "Huh?"

  "Dad," he gritted, massaging the throb behind his mad eyes through pinching the bridge of his stuffy nose, "don't—don't start with that shit."

  "I'm being serious, Rafe! Alex has just got back from his second year at Princeton—an Ivy—and he did that all on his own! Hell, do you think he had the same opportunities I've given you over the years?" Ward scoffed a second time; it was a cruel-sounding thing that made even Iris grimace, burying her head deeper into the cool cedar of the door-frame. "God, it's like everything I've ever given you, it's gone to waste. I'll tell you what else: you know that pogue I just fired—way more reliable than you."

  A warm swell of hope rose in Iris's belly. At least she hadn't come here for nothing.

  "Really?" laughed Rafe mirthlessly, hurt. Maybe only another Cameron child could sense it, but Iris did. Rather easily.

  "Yeah, really," Ward bit. "You need to get it together, Rafe, or you can go live on the Cut." Another dry laugh left his son, and he was hasty to twist the knife, "Is that funny to you? You can go live on the damn Cut, Rafe, as far as I'm concerned. Hell, it might do you some good—you don't see Alex or Iris acting like this, do you? Fucking up as much as you do."

  "Dad, your precious daughter slums it with lowlives! She's—God, she's always high, and...and getting into trouble!" he yelled savagely. "She's a piece of shit, just like the rest of them pogues!"

  "Just get out of here. Get outta here, Rafe, I'm sick of looking at you!" Ward spat. The cringe of springs told Iris that Rafe was listening, and she anxiously moved further away from the door. Ward didn't let go. "Make yourself useful somewhere—somehow!"

  Childlike, "Sarah's not working."

  "This isn't about Sarah, Rafe. Or Iris. Or any of your sisters, for that matter. You're almost 20," he seethed, "you don't just get to sit back and have everything handed to you."

  "Yes, sir," said Rafe, pathetic.

  Iris almost pitied him.

  "It doesn't seem like you understand me—"

  "I'll take care of those generators, okay?" Rafe promised. It's a desperate, last-ditch attempt of earning respect. The ache in him was palpable, but, again, maybe only to a child of Ward.

  "I'll believe it when I see it."

  A stretch of silence followed. Rafe was licking his wounds. He was as doglike as her when he scampered into the foyer, eyes made of glass. Then, he saw Iris and the resentment that crept his way onto his face was homicidal.

  "Great." The bitterness tore through him in the form of an abrasive scoff. "Isn't this just—I bet you loved that, didn't you?" Rafe sneered, his finger coming right between her eyes. "Why are you even here, huh, pogue? Come to beg Daddy for something, yeah?"

  Iris winced. "Rafe, listen—"

  Her brother only shook his head, tearing his hand away. "Fuck you, Iris. And fuck your brother."

  Deplorable, Iris's eyes stayed on his retreating back until he disappeared through the nearest set of doors. She didn't have enough time to mull on his belligerence or nurse her own wounds, as Ward emerged wearing that same agitated expression that he always got after talking to Rafe. All of that eased away when he saw Iris in his house for the first time since their last fight, the creases on his forehead ironing out mellowly and his frown-lines softening into a relieved smile. It's like she breathed life back into her father.

  "Sonny," Ward greeted her warmly, "hey, you're...—what are you doing here, kiddo?"

  "Erm, Dad, hi." She cringed, the entire monologue that she rehearsed on the way over died on her tongue. "You, uh, good?"

  Kill her now.

  Ward beamed, his head tilting curiously to the side. "Yeah, I'm good, sweetheart. What's wrong? I feel like I haven't seen you in ages. You need something?"

  The guilt in her stomach left Iris feeling bloated. Maybe it was Rafe's butchering taunt, but Ward automatically—and, rightfully—assuming that she was only here because she needed something made her feel sick, right to the basement of her belly. She tried to swallow all of this down by reminding herself of how badly her dad's treated her in the past, how he didn't really deserve a better reason for a visit from her, but it did nothing to get rid of the ugliness swirling around in her thoughts.

  The 'the phone works both ways' rhetoric was enough to make Iris undone. She wasn't a bleating animal put here to obey her father, as mindlessly as her brothers might, given half the chance to be favoured. She's better than that. Iris was better than that.

  "It's, well," she laughed nervously, "it's about John B, Dad."

  Ward sighed, stalking back outside to the balcony. Apprehensively, Iris followed him like a lost hound.

  "Iris, I'll tell you what I told him—I need people that I can trust, and, well, I just can't trust him, Sonny. He lied to me. You know, I probably would've given him the scuba gear if he asked in the first place," he added conscientiously, noticing that Iris went to retort. "I gave him the job when you asked, right? I mean, hell, I really tried with the kid, Iris. For his sake as much as yours."

  Hopelessness clawed at her throat as she protested, "And I know that, Dad, but—"

  "You had nothing to do with it, did you, Iris?" Ward interjected then, incising her with a stern frown. "Because, you know that I'd give it if you asked. Right?"

  Iris faltered. The guilt returned. (It never truly left). Her head felt heavy with it, and her lungs, her heart. She knew that. He'd give her anything if she asked sweetly enough—using just enough tone of forgiveness to make him believe that he had the upperhand over her, over Carmen. But it was like she told the pogues, she wasn't above pettiness, or making him feel small.

  Yet, now, Iris couldn't handle this very expression on her father's face that she imagined when JJ first suggested to them all that Iris stole equipment from My Druthers. It was as if her old man was begging he to prove him wrong—to tell him, even if it was a lie, that she knew that she could've asked him. That pinched furrow of his brow, the forlorn slant of a frown. He wants to be wanted. He needs to be needed. Had this been haunting him, Iris had to wonder? Had it kept him up at night, since Sarah told him about John B's discretion—that his daughter, his Sonny, was too afraid of asking him for something that she risked her friend's neck and job instead? The ugly part of her hoped that it lived in his mind as a contagious parasite, spreading from his brain to skin, crawling all over him like hundreds of tiny centipedes, shuttling about and itching at his flesh to the same level of discomfort that she felt now under his gaze.

  "I swear," she said slowly, "that I had no idea that John B was gonna take anything from the Druthers, Pops. But, I can testify as an honest character witness that—"

  Ward, still dejected, shook his head and laughed gloomily. "I haven't subpoenaed you here, Sonny. You're not in court. I'm asking you as your dad, not as your friend's boss."

  Iris weakened, if only for a single, stuttered breath.

  "He meant no disrespect," she continued meaningfully. "John B's good, Dad—you can trust him, I promise. This was one slip-up. They happen. I mean, look at Rafe—"

  "Rafe's your brother, Iris," he reminded her severely.

  Iris bit her tongue on all the responses she had in response to that. "It was just an example."

  "I'm sorry, Iris. I really am. But, my word's final," Ward said, with an air of resolution that made her shrink in defeat. Looking genuinely upset about this, about her hurt, Ward rested his hands on his hips and smiled at his favourite daughter wretchedly, as though he felt nothing but pity for his Sonny and her poor, ill-gotten loyalties. "Hey, listen—I'll be sure to add an extra week's wages to his last cheque, yeah? A severance package."

  Her tooth split a nasty cut into her tongue, the taste of blood spilling through her mouth. Splenetic, Iris tried not to cringe around the bleeding and the bitterness left by her dad's bargaining. Meant to be kind, she was sure. But, it fell flat. The olive branch splintered right at their feet, as beaten and rotten as the fallen trees around Tannyhill's estate.

  He must not sense it, because Ward gave her this soft-hearted, attentive smile, like he just won her over, and they were wrapping up a really good and successful conversation. Soon enough, he was collecting her into this hug—strong, fatherly arms around her smaller shoulders; Iris was bundled against her dad's chest as he all but cradled her like an injured bird he had found amidst the hurricane wreckage. It hurt her, but she felt nurtured. Her own arms trembling with the rage of it all, Iris hugged him back, wincing as his mouth kissed her hairline, the stubble on his cheek rough and stinging against her temple.

  "Sorry, kiddo. I know I've disappointed you."

  You've spent my whole disappointing me, she wanted to exact right against his heart, where it beat determinedly against her ear, what's so different this time?

  Even now, Ward was worrying that he had lost points in his brutal war with Carmen, but all Iris could think about was how she was going to break the news to John B that he might not be eating dinner for the next few weeks until he found a new job—all because Iris didn't have the guts to show up at her old man's doorstep and ask for something.

  "No," Iris mumbled instead, holding back tears, "you didn't. I get it. Thanks, anyway, Pops."

  He untangled their arms, placing his hands squarely on her shoulders. Ward smiled, lovingly, warm, then tucked a finger under her chin.

  "I love you, Sonny. You know that, don't you?"

  Iris wasn't 100% sure that her dad could love, but he believed he could, so that must be enough.

  "Yeah," she said weakly, "I know, Dad. Love you, too."

  He squished her cheek affectionately, smiling at her one final time before slipping past her back through the doors. "You should stay for dinner. I know Sarah and Wheezie miss having you around."

  Of course, her dad didn't stick around long enough for Iris to tell him how staying for dinner was the thing in the world she wanted to do the least right now. He left Iris as a lamb in a slaughterhouse out there, on the portico, reeling and raw.

  Sarah found her not long after, lips pursed in a sisterly line of concern. "Hey, where'd you go? I thought you were getting Wheezie a glass of water?"

  "I was," said Iris defensively. "I just—I found Dad, and I needed to...—" Then, she was shaking her head so hard that she felt her own skull rattle. "Sarah, why did you tell him about John B?"

  A nervous, hysterical laugh left her sister's mouth in a shrill peal. "Did he tell you that? That, what—I ran and snitched to Ward?"

  "Pretty much, yeah."

  "Well, I didn't. I wouldn't—I caught him, yes, but I didn't tell Ward." Neither of them miss how desperately Sarah wanted Iris to believe her. Neither miss the unsightly shake in her voice as she tried to convince her. She was trying to fix it with her bare hands, but the years felt so long and empty that Iris wasn't sure that either of them would ever be able to clean up this mess. "I'm not like that, Iris. I know you think you know me—"

  "You're my sister." The word ravaged Iris. "Of course, I know you," she sneered, contemptuous.

  Sarah flinched—neither miss the hatred in Iris's voice, either. "It's not supposed to be like this all the time. We're not meant to be fighting. I mean, sisters fight—Wheezie and I are always arguing—"

  "Not the same thing, Sarah. And you know it."

  "Yeah, and it sucks!" she exclaimed, almost in tantrum. She sounded so childlike and upset, Iris was a little shocked when she didn't stomp her foot. "It sucks," Sarah whispered, fawnlike now. "I want us to be friends."

  Iris could've laughed. "Friends."

  "Yes, friends. Is that so bad? We used to be. When we were kids." Sarah's lips twist dolefully into a pout. "Remember?"

  "Sarah—"

  "Come to Marnie's party tonight," she begged. There's that desperation again. This time, with hands—Sarah's manicured nails pressing into the flesh on the inside of Iris's wrists. "I mean, Marnie loves you. It'll be fun. Like old times. I'm guessing she's already invited you?"

  She had.

  It was another one of those messages, fraying her shorts with singe marks from the heat of it.

  Iris wasn't sure what possessed her. Maybe it's that same nag that brought her into the bathroom, to check on Wheezie—the soft sinews. The girl in her that stashed all her spare money away for Phoebe. The ribbon that yearned for childhood, for her mother's cooking, to see Alex in John B.

  "Fine," she said, "but I'm not being nice to your boyfriend."

  Sarah swept her up into an excited hug. It smelt of expensive perfume and their shared girlhood. Their ribs twined, and Iris didn't confront the thing that possessed her—the invisible hands. The coldblooded truth.

  Iris was their father's favourite daughter. If he knew what she was doing, making amends, extending olive branches of her own—with Sarah, with the princess—he'd probably love her even more.

  Iris wasn't better than her brothers.

  Never would be.

a/n: the chapter being called "favourite daughter," and having sarah as the gif, but iris is the real favourite - oh, there's meaning there. there's crumbs.

next chap is called "girl, so confusing." i'll let u ponder on that. in it, we'll have a little insight into kook!iris/her dynamics with kids from the academy. im very excited for it, actually!!!!!