Page 238 of Sweet Ruin

I hear Niko sigh behind me, then turn and stomp away through the other door.

Lilah glances after him. “You sure?”

“Just a little sibling disagreement,” I tell her. “Like I said, nothing to worry about. Business stuff. It’ll pass.”

“Alright. If you say so.” She touches my wrist. “By the way, I meant to ask you…”

I freeze. “Yes?”

“I guess I missed a call from my mom last night, but anyway, she left a voicemail. She invited us to dinner at the house for Palm Sunday tomorrow. Both of us.”

“Is your sister going to be there?”

“Probably,” she says. “Normally, I’d say no, just to spare the headache, but… Kane, that party has been mine since I was six years old. My birthday’s baked into it, basically. If I hand it over to Vivian just because she’s got an engagement ring on, then she gets that, too. And I think she’s got enough of my things.” She shrugs. “So I think I’m going to go. Just because they think I won’t.”

“Then I’ll be there, too,” I promise.

“You don’t have to look thrilled.”

I grin. “You could drag me into hell and I’d go willingly with a smile on my face, sladkaya. Just as long as you’re there with me.”

I close the door to the dining room and walk her out to where Stepan is waiting with the car to drive her to work. I kiss her goodbye, then return to pick up the map, roll it up, and tuck it out of sight once more.

Tomorrow, I’ll tell her everything she needs to know.

Tonight, I’ll let her believe there is nothing to worry about.

Nothing at all.

43

DELILAH

Palm Sunday begins with me parking illegally in front of my mother’s house while Kane critiques my parallel parking from the passenger seat.

“You’re four feet from the curb.”

“I’m protecting the rims.”

He looks out his window at the gap between the tires and the curb. “A small family could live there.”

“Then I’ve solved the housing crisis. You’re welcome.”

I turn off the engine and sit for a second to collect my thoughts.

Through the windshield, the house looks so much less menacing than I know it actually is.

Low brick wall.

Wrought iron staircase railing on the stoop.

Same old house it’s always been.

Except for Mom’s Palm Sunday grapevine wreath hanging on the door. It’s kinda like the Eye of Sauron staring right at me.

The curtains are open. I see silhouettes moving behind the glass.

My mother has been throwing this party since I was six, back when my birthday fell close enough to Palm Sunday that combining them seemed practical.