The final lie was not our fathers’, but the one we told ourselves about who we were.
The journal sat between us on the silk duvet, a leather-bound specter. Thorne’s “parting gift” felt less like a revelation and more like a lit fuse. Lysander’s jaw was a hard line, his gaze fixed on the book as if it might spontaneously combust.
“We don’t have to do this now,” he said, his voice low. “We could throw it in the fire. We know the broad strokes. We don’t need his poison.”
“Ignoring a snake doesn’t make it less venomous,” I countered, my fingers itching to touch the worn cover. “It just means you don’t see the bite coming. He sent this for a reason. He wants to get inside our heads one last time.”
“He’s already in mine,” Lysander admitted, a rare flash of raw honesty. He ran a hand through
