Page 18 of Gravehouse

I double-tap a few without reading. Words blur as my thumbs move on autopilot.

Why do people trust fake smiles more than real frowns? The whole “don’t believe happiness on social media” thing has always bothered me. How do people need to be told that, yet still assume someone sharing their struggles online is only doing it for attention?

I swipe to TikTok.

Videos load before I can brace for impact. A girl with pink hair stares into her front camera, eyes wide, her voice pitched high with that kind of gassed up adrenaline one can only get from being a professional hater.

She hooks her thumb over her shoulder, pointing at the stitched-in clip.

“So! Hold up! Last week, we saw Camille and Asher hooking up in a club!”She stabs a finger at the video playing above her head.“And now he’s married to Ivy? I don’t know. At this point, it’s giving weird vibes.”

I replay it even if it feels like being stabbed in the gut over and over again. Sure enough, there, in the middle of a fucking nightclub, is Asher with his mouth on Camille.

Two can play this game.

An hour later,my bedroom door swings open.

I snap my laptop closed. “I think I’m starting to imagine shit.”

Luce lifts a paper bag with an arched brow. “Did you happen to imagine greasy food that mends hearts?”

I gesture for the bag. Because yes. Food.

“I have to admit, I don’t think I’d be complaining if I was locked in here.” She dumps everything on the table and tilts her chin at the windows. “Also, who fucking knew Veilarath had another side?”

“I know.” I peel back the wrapper and sink my teeth into the burger, chewing with zero intention of civility. “What I don’t know is why he hasn’t just killed me yet.”

I don’t bother swallowing. So unladylike. As if the Desert Eagle under my pillow didn’t already make that obvious.

“Speaking of...” Her eyes slide back to me. “How do you feel?”

I slump against the bedpost, chewing around my words. “I’m confused.”

Why couldn’t this soda be wine?

She watches me carefully. “Are you happier that he’s still alive? Or upset?”

I’m not shocked that she’s asking me this. We all rely on Luce to keep things real.

“I’m conflicted about both parts.” I swallow my bite. “I was hoping Emeric would help. Maybe tell me that he already had it handled, or that, I don’t know...”

I trail off, unsure if I’ll ever find the right words.

Luce rolls her eyes. “You put way too much trust in that old man. I can’t believe you talk with him like that.”

Wiping my hands on a napkin, I shrug. “He’s not who you all see.” We’ve hammered through this exact conversation a dozen times over the years.

“Anyway! I’ve done some research.” Luce digs into her Chanel handbag and yanks out a piece of paper, slapping it flat on the bed. “This is all I’ve gathered. The years leading up to last winter, Asher would go missing from time to time. I mean, obviously, the cameras followed his every move. But eventually, people gave up asking because he never answered and he’d always pop in and out of the spotlight. Fast-forward to last winter.”

She taps the timeline, leaving a grease smudge.

I scan the chaotic lines Luce drew.

“Punk said she bumped into Atlas on accident,” she says, blinking at me.

Silence spills between us before I lift a brow. “Are you saying otherwise?”

Her shoulders dip. “No, of course not.” She gestures to the pages. “Here’s what we know so far, right?”