Page 4 of Reptile Dysfunction
“That’s not relevant to your assignment.” His tone shifts to what I call his “take-charge voice.” It’s authoritative and slightly patronizing. “Focus on the present and future, Sloane. The fifth anniversary is about progress, not dwelling on a complicated past.”
Through the window, Harmony Glen rolls by—quaint storefronts with monster and human employees working side by side, parks where children of various species play together. It’s genuinely beautiful, this integration my father has helped champion. But beneath the surface…
“Don’t you think people deserve the whole story?” My gaze stays fixed on the passing scenery. “The real one?”
“People deserve peace,” he says firmly. “They deserve to feel safe in their community. Digging up potentially upsetting aspects of pre-Revelation monster society doesn’t serve anyone.”
The car turns onto the long driveway of our family home—a sprawling Victorian that’s been featured in regional magazines as a “seamless blend of historical charm and modern comfort.” What those glossy spreads don’t show is my mother’s recovery setup in the east wing or the way my childhood bedroom feels like a time capsule I’ve been forced back into.
“Just focus on the celebration angle, sweetheart. Use those investigative journalism skills again if you go back to New York City.”
As if my return to Harmony Glen might not be temporary. As if Mom’s hip replacement with its endless complications and lengthy recovery is just a short-term inconvenience. As if giving up my apartment and promising position at theTribuneto come home six months ago was somehow a permanent decision.
“Of course.” The smile I give him is one he taught me—polished, agreeable, revealing nothing. “I should check on Mom before dinner.”
“Her physical therapist said she’s making progress.” He squeezes my hand. “And Sloane? Try to find a nice angle on the Gorgon boy. His brother’s been a wonderful asset to our narrative.”
As he strides toward his home office, my smile fades. My father means well. But his obsession with controlling the narrative—both the town’s and mine—only strengthens my resolve to find the truth. And did he really just call a thirty-year-old Gorgon aboy? I’ll have to give him a heads-up about how patronizing that sounds.
Inside my bedroom, I kick off my heels with a groan of relief. The space remains largely unchanged from high school—debate trophies, journalism awards, beauty pageant tiaras, and a bulletin board of acceptance letters from top schools. A shrine to the overachieving daughter who my father proudly displayed by his side at campaign events.
The only new addition is my laptop on the antique desk where I once wrote editorials for the school paper. Flipping it open, I navigate past the draft of the official Revelation Day article and open a private browser window. A few keystrokes bring up the domain registration page for a site I’ve been contemplating for weeks.
HarmonyUncensored.com
My finger hovers over the “Purchase” button. Starting an anonymous blog would infuriate my father, potentially damage his carefully crafted public image, and possibly get me fired from the part-time position at his paper—my only professional foothold since returning to Harmony Glen.
It would also be the first truly independent thing I’ve done since my journalism degree and three years of climbing the ladder at theTribuneproved insufficient against family obligations.
The doorbell chimes before I can decide what to do about the domain name. From my window, I spot an all-too-familiar red Porsche in the driveway. It belongs to Bradley Harrington III, son of the town’s most prominent developer and my father’s preferred candidate for my “suitable match.”
Swallowing a groan, I head downstairs just in time to hear our housekeeper usher him into the foyer.
“Bradley. What a surprise.”
“Is it?” His smile suggests it shouldn’t be. “Your father mentioned you’d be home early today. Thought I’d swing by with dinner plans.” He gives me a practiced smile, showing just the right amount of teeth to be interpreted as “happy to see you.”
The mention of my father’s involvement makes my jaw tighten. “How thoughtful of you to check my schedule with him first.”
The sarcasm sails right over his expertly coiffed head. “Well, you know how busy you get with your little newspaper projects. Easier to coordinate through the proper channels.”
By “proper channels,” he means the man who still believes he can run my life. Five years after monsters came out of hiding, and somehow the patriarchy remains the most stubborn supernatural force in Harmony Glen.
“Actually, I have plans tonight.” The lie comes easily. “Research for my article, plus Mom has her evening PT exercises I help with.”
“The Revelation piece?” He invites himself further into the house, moving past me toward the living room. “Your dad filled me in. Sounds like a fluff assignment. Should be wrapped up quickly, right?”
My eyes narrow slightly. “Actually, I’m pursuing a more in-depth angle. The history of monster integration is fascinating, especially the untold parts.”
Bradley’s polite mask slips for just a second, revealing the disdain beneath. “Why complicate things? Nobody wants to hear about the messy parts. Just stick to the feel-good stuff.”
Just like my father. Just like every authority figure in this town. Don’t rock the boat. Don’t ask uncomfortable questions. Don’t challenge the narrative.
My phone vibrates with a text notification. Unknown number:Did you really wear thousand-dollar shoes to a public pool? I Googled those red soles. Tell me they were knock-offs.
A smile tugs at my lips. Thaddeus Fangborn, using the number on my business card. Calling me out on my Louboutins, of all things.
“Something important?” Bradley’s tone suggests nothing could be more important than he is.
