The Glass Ballerina Who Danced On Knives

Don't bleed on that

Well, fight or flight, I'd rather die. 

Than have to cry in front of you

Fight or flight, I'd rather lie

Fight or Flight, Conan Gray

The hallway is cold, and my skin feels hot, burning as Cam brushes his fingers against mine. My breathing has slowed again, and I'm drawing lines between the boy who's been my best friend for years and the guy who's just had my tongue down his throat. I build walls around myself, putting armour around the girl who would die to have someone touch her like that again, showing the girl who can... what can I even do? Clearly I lack the emotional capacity to even deal with a casual kiss. But was it casual? The voice in my head nags me as we descend down the stairs.

In the living room, a fire is roaring in the pit as Jameson winces against a winglip chair, and Grayson sits, ramrod straight on my favourite armchair, both looking in various states of disrepair and exhaustion. I snap out of my emotional sludge and take charge of this disastrous situation.

"Will someone please explain to me what the hell is going on?" I cross my arms and tap my tkh monogrammed slippers.

Jameson leans back lazily in his chair. "The Drop, dynamite, The Drop." He smiles, showing his split lip and blood splattered teeth, damp hair mussed out of the beanie laying on his lap (because Jameson Hawthorne is just too cool for helmets apparently.)

"Don't bleed on that." I snap. "I don't actually know how to get it out. Besides, I'm not your laundress."

"Wouldn't dream of it." He sends a blood -tainted smile to Avery, who rolls her eyes in response. "Just make sure Gray doesn't throw up into that vase."

"You're an idiot." Grayson responds.

"Don't be sanctimonious, Gray. 'Idiot' really? Your insults are rapidly degrading in quality." I swipe my hand in a downward movement.

"You're all idiots!" Avery exclaims, her outburst attracting the attention of Xander, who sits next to the fireplace, previously disengaged in the conversation.

"Is there something bothering you, Avery?" Cam speaks up from my side, clearly feeling a little uncomfortable.

Ave whirls to my friend. "I'm fine, Camden, but it's pretty impossible to get these Hawthornes to see past their egos and listen to some hard evidence."

Camden's devilish smile returns. "Sorry Grambs, but I'm afraid I'm a little too suffocated myself, and I'll have to excuse myself."

And he just leaves me to die here. "Did Xander," Avery continues. "Tell you what we found?"

What they found? What is she talking about?

"What I found, Heiress," Jameson corrects with a smile, the blood still on his lips. "I know about the picture. The page with what we can assume is likely a message of some kind, written in invisible ink."

I roll my eyes this time. "For the love of all things complex and pretentious, go brush that blood off your lips and teeth."

"Love to, Tulip, but my toothbrush has mysteriously disappeared."

I let out a deep sigh. "There's a reason you have fillings in 83% of your teeth."

Grayson scrutinises Avery, then focuses on Xander. "What else did you find?"

"For the record," Xander says, hobbling to the elegant sofa. "I won the Drop." He glances at his feet. "And I might have neglected to mention that the guy in that photo is Nash's father."

That statement has the exact effect it was supposed to—on Jameson and Grayson. But I'm not surprised, and by the look of it, neither is Avery. It's only logical. I've been attempting to track down our fathers since I was thirteen. Sheffield Grayson was the first one I found, and from there, it was easy, and logical. I've never told anyone what I've done, and once in a while, I'll throw in something to mess them up. As small as messing up their Doordash order, to as large as shutting down their fancy electric cars. The only one I've never been able to find is my own. What kind of last name is Trinity?