Page 2 of Tricked By Jack
Shesteps aside, and I catch a glimpse of the woman who could have saved my sister. The woman who chose not to. Dr. Eve Mortis stands up. “Thank you, Naya,” Eve says, her warm tone at odds with her professionally blank expression.
While Naya slips out, Eve takes a step toward me. Her hair is just as it was at the funeral—jet black from scalp to shoulder, then changing into a striking blood-red color. She wears a long-sleeved nude-toned dress, tailored and high-necked, hem grazing just below the knee.
I fucking hate how good she looks.
Every detail in her outfit is stripped of warmth, like she’s allergic to being perceived as anything but controlled. Which, honestly, fit the rest of her soulless office.
There are no family photos or diplomas on display. No plants reaching for nonexistent sunlight. Just white walls, a glass desk with nothing out of place, and a single painting of abstract shapes that convey nothing but safe, sterile ambiguity.
Even the couch where she gestures for me to sit feels unwelcoming—firm enough to keep me present, soft enough to suggest comfort without delivering it. It’s a room designed to reveal nothing about its occupant while extracting everything from those who enter. Perfect for a woman who trades in the spectrum of human emotions.
“Please, make yourself comfortable, Mr. Knight,” she says, her voice smooth and calibrated. She takes the chair opposite the couch, crossing one leg over the other. Her notepad rests on her lap, pen poised to dissect me.
I sink into the couch, allowing my shoulders to slump forward just enough to signal distress. “Jack. Please call me Jack.”
She nods once. “Jack. I must admit, I’m curious as to why you made this appointment. You didn’t seem happy that I was at the funeral.” Eve’s face remains professionally compassionate—a mask as carefully constructed as the rest of her. “I’m very sorry for your loss. Are you here to talk about Ruby?”
I’ve rehearsed this. What to say. How much to reveal. I need to appear genuine without overplaying my hand. “Yeah,” I admit, my voice thick with emotions. “I guess I am.”
Evemakes a note on her pad. “Go on.”
“Did you know she was the youngest of the three of us?” I ask, staring at a point just past Eve’s left ear.
“Why are you asking if I knew? Is that important to you?”
I force myself not to clench my hands or jaw at her obvious deflection. “Just curious,” I reply, keeping my tone as light as possible.
“Tell me about your sister, Jack. What kind of person was she?”
“The best,” I growl, not liking the way it sounds like she’s doubting the kind of person Ruby was. “She was dealt a shitty hand in life, and at every turn, our dad made it worse. But she was kind and loving. Fuck…”
“Go on,” she prompts gently.
“Ruby was also quick to forgive. Even when people didn’t deserve it.”
Another note. Another practiced tilt of Eve’s head. “What do you mean when you say people didn’t deserve forgiveness? Are you talking about yourself?”
“Maybe.” I lean forward, hands loosely clasped between my knees. “I should have known what she was planning… what she had started. Whathewas fucking hired to do. Maybe if I’d known I could have stopped it… but I didn’t.”
Eve’s pen stills for a moment. “I understand you probably have a lot of unanswered questions. But let me ask you this, Jack. Why are you placing so much emphasis on the what and why? Nothing can bring your sister back to life.”
I inhale sharply, averting my gaze so she can’t see the hatred burning in my eye sockets. “Understanding is a preface for acceptance,” I retort, my tone low. “But you’re right, Eve. I’ll probably never know the reasons behind the choices Ruby made.”
She nods. “It’s good for you to—”
“So that just leaves the whys, and more importantly, the responsibility.”
More scribbling before she looks back up at me, her gray eyes intense. “And who do you believe is responsible?” When I don’t answer immediately, she cants her head slightly. “You mentioned that your dad did wrong by Ruby. Are you blaming him for her death?”
A cold laugh slips out. “Nah, he’s not responsible for her death. Mine, sure, but not hers.”
Eve’s lips part, probably to ask what I meant bymydeath. But I lift a hand, wordlessly silencing her since that’s not a conversation I’m willing to have. Not about the minutes I was gone, or the doctors who dragged me back. And definitely not about the Knight family curse.
If I were a theorist, I’d call it coincidence. Say Ruby’s death was timing, mine was luck, and Nick’s survival is just statistical noise in a family with too much blood under its fingernails. But I’m not a theorist. I’m a Knight, and Knights know better.
“To answer your question, Eve.” I deliberately use her name, refusing to give her any power by acknowledging her doctorate. “I blame Valentine Grant, aka the motherfucking Hunter of New York City,” I growl, throwing the name out like a grenade and watch where the shrapnel lands.
It’s subtle—so subtle most would miss it. But I’ve been studying people’s tells since I was old enough to trick my way into backroom poker games. The momentary stillness of her pen. The almost imperceptible tightening around her eyes. The fraction of a second delay before she responds.
