Haze wasn't wrong. Not entirely anyway.

He happened to be an excellent driver. That didn't mean my arms wouldn't be sore and aching tomorrow just from clutching onto him.

To his credit, he never complained. Not once. He didn't even flinch when I gripped his torso for dear life after a particularly careless cab driver randomly opened the driver's door in the middle of the intersection for whatever reason. Haze just braked smoothly and then swerved around the man like some kind of professional stunt driver.

As we left the intersection behind, his gloved hand found my thigh. Despite our increasing speed and the cars whooshing past us on both sides, all I could focus on was his touch. Gentle. Warm.

Exhaling a shaky breath, I rested my head on his shoulder. I didn't loosen my grip though.

When he reached forward to grasp the handlebar again, I suddenly felt cold despite the wall of comfortable heat my arms were currently wrapped around.

It was smooth sailing after that. My grasp on him loosened ever so slightly once busy city avenues were slowly replaced by dimly lit suburban streets that didn't have me constantly worrying that someone was going to sideswipe us. That brief feeling of relief didn't last long though.

When the brights lit up that dark empty countryside road I knew all too well, my stomach clenched.

Framed by tall evergreen trees on both sides, it exuded peace and tranquility during the daytime. At least that's what everyone always said.

To me, the trees were sentries, immovable and looming. Nothing but uncomfortable reminders of the place I'd been forced to call home for the longest time.

Gravel crunched beneath the tires, interrupting the steady hum of the engine. The bike slowed and I tilted my head to the side. A narrow, paved path almost concealed by overgrown bushes appeared on the right. Almost there.

I took a deep breath.

We followed the smaller road for a couple of hundred feet before stopping in front of a wrought iron gate. Diamond-shaped spikes on top shone in bright blue lantern light. Lux crystals, of course. Dad had been one of the first human ambassadors to get crystal lighting.

I tapped Haze on his stomach three times and flipped up my visor. Cool night air hit my face. It felt good.

Haze's head snapped around and he flicked his visor up too. Wary eyes raked over my helmet-covered face.

"You good?" he asked, his voice barely loud enough for me to hear.

Define good. I was about to set foot into a house that held nothing but bad memories for the first time in half a decade.

"You can drop me off here," I said, leaning back, albeit much too reluctantly.

Funny how easily I'd gotten used to that warmth. And sitting on the back of a deathtrap.

One dark brow drifted up. "Do I look like a taxi to you?"

"Well, we'd have to get you a nice little yellow glow sign, but..." I tilted my head. "I could see it. Yeah, why not?"

His eyes narrowed. "I'm not dumping you in the middle of the woods."

"It's just down that road. Ten-minute walk, tops."

"Request denied, Cupcake. You can ditch me at the house."

Why did he have to be so...difficult? And why did it feel like he actually cared?

"Fine," I grumbled, pointing at the small black box hidden on a tree branch high above the gate. "But then we need to ditch the bike. The camera above the gate starts filming when you use the keypad."

He blinked at me. "Ditch...the bike?"

"This isn't..." I unclasped the helmet and pulled it off my head, suddenly more than a little annoyed at my own muffled voice. A breath of fresh country air later, I continued, "This isn't exactly inconspicuous, you know?"

Not that he was in any way inconspicuous either, but the bike definitely didn't help.

His chest vibrated. "No, but when you're fast enough to disappear before anyone can get a closer look at you, that doesn't matter."

Fair point.

"Still..." Carefully grabbing onto his shoulder with one hand, I raised first my right leg up over the bike and stepped onto the ground.

And immediately lost my footing.

Arms reeling, I tried to grab onto the back of the bike—and missed. "Woah cra—"

An arm snatched my waist, steadying me.

"Easy," Haze said, not bothering to hide the amusement in his voice.

How he was able to lean across the bike without it tipping over, no idea.

"I'm g-good." Except for the fact that my legs were entirely useless. My free hand curled around the sleeve of his hoodie. "Perfectly...fine."

He waited until I stopped swaying before releasing me. After one more look down the empty road, he said, "We're not ditching the bike."

"Look, Red." Pretending not to notice the glint in his eyes at the mention of his new nickname, I slowly stepped around the motorcycle. "If anyone sees your plates, it won't take long—"

Where one would expect to find a license plate, there was none. Of course, not.

I cleared my throat. "I see."

Ignoring the laughing demon behind me, I made my way to the vine-covered keypad and typed in the familiar code. With a soft beep from the device and a metallic creak a moment later, the gate swung open.

I slipped the helmet on once more, and, this time, mounted the bike flawlessly. Well, almost. Still didn't find that foot peg right away.

I wrapped my arms around Haze and pressed my head into the curve between his shoulder blades, mumbling a quiet, "Let's go" mostly to myself.

We zoomed through the opening and down the hedge-flanked path toward the place I hated the most. The night was pitch black out here, but soon enough, neatly trimmed bushes appeared in an open, grassy area to the right. Most were circular, illuminated by single lights directed up at them from the ground.

That was new. Most likely my stepmother's doing. Dad never had a thing for gardens. To her credit, at least these plants were real.

As we approached the mansion, the darkness was gradually replaced first by floodlights along the driveway, and then by the brightly lit high windows of the entrance hall. While that wasn't unusual by any means, nor a sign that someone was home, it still made me second guess my decision to come here. Although the new yellow lux crystal lanterns above the door made it look almost inviting.

Haze brought the bike to a stop right in front of the large garage on the side of the house. I dismounted with steadier legs this time while he switched off the engine and did the same—much smoother than me.

After he removed his helmet and ran a hand through his messy obsidian hair, he said, "FYI, the guard and you are the only people connecting this bike to me."

"Seems a little risky to trust a random parking garage guard," I said.

Unless there was nothing random about the guard.

Haze's lazy smile confirmed my suspicions.

"He's a demon..." I added after removing my own helmet. Seeing random strands on the edges of my field of vision, I just knew there was no way my hair looked in any way presentable.

He nodded. "Of pride. Very intent on staying out of Pyrarcis." His grin widened. "Less risky than trusting you."

"Thought we both know I won't sell you out," I grumbled.

"You won't." And he was right back to sounding smug. "But...I have actual leverage on him."

Then my fear of the dark was not considered leverage? Interesting. Not that I would complain.

"What are we doing here, Cupcake?" he asked after a moment of stunned silence on my part.

"I—we..." I took a deep breath. "I need to do some digging."

"So...snooping?"

"Yes, snooping. Now stop judging and follow me."

I wasn't exactly sure when I'd decided to trust him, but going into that house alone was...daunting. And not necessarily because of what I might find.

He raised his hands in mock surrender, but the gesture couldn't quite overshadow the seriousness in his eyes. "Not judging, just...surprised."

"I seem to surprise you a lot," I said, turning my back on him to hide the stupid hint of a smile on my face.

"That you do," he breathed.

Hyper aware of his watchful gaze on my back, I stalked along the side of the house. Haze followed me through a mini version of the gate at the entrance.

As we passed the living room, I stopped, got on my tiptoes, and peered inside. Empty. The stairwell leading to the second floor was dark too. That was a good sign.

Once in the backyard, I ran my hand over the lower brick wall of the house, searching for—one of the stones moved beneath my finger. Gotcha. I typed a second code on the hidden keypad and with a soft click, the lock of the back door on my left opened.

Haze kept quiet the entire time, but I could still feel him watching my every move.

When we slipped into the kitchen, we both held our breaths. The entire house was dead silent, but not cold. The smell of artificial vanilla wafted over to us. Somehow the fact that this house still smelled exactly the same was not reassuring at all.

"Coast is clear," I whispered, motioning for him to take his shoes off.

Once he'd placed them on the doormat, I shoved the whole thing underneath the dresser next to the door. Just in case someone did show up. Then I grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the kitchen.

"It smells funny in here," he grumbled.

My feet sunk into the thick carpet in the hallway. For once I was glad Dad's office was downstairs. I was not about to set one foot on the second floor. Not today and not ever.

I dropped Haze's arm and reached for the doorknob. It didn't open. It took me a moment to realize it was my shaking hands preventing me from getting it open and not the mechanism itself.

Deep breaths.

"Who's that?" Haze asked.

He stood in front of the almost life-sized portrait of Clarence. Right, I'd almost forgotten about that particular masterpiece.

My first instinct was to lie, but...I didn't want to.

"My stepbrother," I replied quietly.

"Huh."

He couldn't have seen him at the park, right?

I finally got the door open and stepped inside. The vaguely familiar, musty scent of old books and ink surrounded me. Dad had banned me from ever coming in here after the...incident. Funny how well the brain remembered certain smells.

I flicked on the light and frowned. It still looked exactly how it had back then—organized, dark, and lived in. Except, a thin layer of dust now covered almost every visible surface. Dad was a clean freak. Which meant, he hadn't been home in a good long while either.

Perfect. Whatever was there to find, would probably still be here then.

Unlike his New York office, this one didn't have a secret room full of dirt. All of Dad's files were either in his desk or in the cabinet behind it.

My eyes landed on his encyclopedia collection. The volume that had toppled to the floor after Clarence had hit his head on it was still dented at the spine. Dad had been so mad. So, so mad.

Almost as mad as he'd been about my broken wrist.

I shook the thought away and knelt in front of the enormous oak desk, practically a twin to Dad's other one. I braced myself and opened the top drawer.

"What exactly are we looking for?" Haze asked, pulling a binder marked Taxes from the top shelf of the cabinet.

Dust rained down and I suppressed the urge to swipe at the particles. Scanning a report of what appeared to be a list of regular expenses, I said, "Anything suspicious."

"That narrows it down."

"And..." I swallowed. "Irene Pierce. Anything with her name on it."

He didn't ask who that was or why, and I was glad for it.

After a solid twenty minutes of finding absolutely nothing, I slammed the first drawer shut and opened the middle one. I pushed aside a box filled to the brim with business cards and froze. This drawer had a false bottom.

I sucked in a breath. It came undone with a good amount of force, revealing a single white square beneath. In the bottom right corner, Dad had written, Our last summer.

My heart beat in my throat when I slowly picked up the photograph. I flipped it around and nearly dropped it. A beautiful blond woman in a blue dress with a baby in her arms.

Mom?

It had to be. Right?

"Irene Pierce," Haze said slowly.

"W-what?" I pressed the picture close to my chest.

"Look." He held a stack of papers with a pale-yellow sticky note on top out to me.

Her name was written in all capital letters right in the middle. Eyes blurry, I tried to decipher the distinct headline on the first sheet. The entire page swam before me, but I could clearly make out a single word.

Disappearance.

And all I could think was one thing.

Liar.

Dad was a freaking liar.

A screen door slammed somewhere in the house, and the picture I'd been clutching sailed to the floor.