CHAPTER FIVE —

— THE DINING ROOM.

KATE BLACKWELL... HAD A PROBLEM.

Truthfully, Kate had many problems. But those were more grandiose and a bit too hard to solve on a Wednesday night. She didn't really care about those, anyways. At the moment, all that was on her mind was Kane's big case — or, well, lackthereof.

When Kane had told people she had lined up her 'greatest case yet', she was lying. All Kate had were scribbles and vague ideas for characters with no structure or point. A beekeeper, the concept of Maine, a couple incognito Google searches for 'how many murders are done in bakeries every year' but absolutely none of that added up to a concrete plan for her next big move.

And it was frustrating because she was always overflowing with ideas, and dying to move onto the next one halfway through her case, and her laptop always had at least five Word documents over with five different half-written episode scripts, because all Kate Blackwell wanted to do was to be Karma Kane.

Which was sad, and stupid and probably a part of a larger psychological issue Kate was vehemently ignoring — but that didn't make it any less true. And harder to deal with, when Kane didn't seem to want to be Kate.

Maybe it was the lack of excitement in her real life drying up her life; Kate's world bleeding into Kane's. Maybe it was everyone clambering for Spider-man when she had no interest in the guy and was honestly starting to want to squish the guy like the gnat he dressed up as. Maybe it was just the dreariness of getting older, of being in senior year and knowing that she hated everything about herself and can't change any of it, and of course the parental issues she tried to shove under the bed like dirty laundry...

Whatever the reason, it absolutely sucked. Like, just the other day she had at least three new great ideas.

But where were they now?

Who could say.

Not Kate Blackwell, that was for sure!

Kate glared down at the mess she'd made around herself. She stood in the middle of a large array of papers, coating every inch of floor space she had available. Scribbled notes, past cases, real-life crimes she could use for inspiration, even just faces of people from TV shows or movies she liked as a character baseline. Her mother's notebook sat to the left of her, wide open on a page that no longer brought her any ideas. Red yarn spilled to the right over a couple pages, a ill-planned thought that went nowhere.

"Think, Blackwell," she coaxed, stepping gingerly through her piles. "Lets use your brain for something, yeah? Just...anything! Any idea at all!"

Nothing came to mind, except that she was hungry. And, after a brief investigation, very out of gummy bears.

Kate tossed the empty candy package into her trashbin, scowling. She kicked at a loose leaf page, which had only 'who did it' smacked in the middle of it all helter-skelter. Another great waste of paper by Katherine Genevieve Blackwell, truly. Let the world burn, right ya privileged little shit?!

"This is so stupid," she told the mess around her, "so, so, stupid! You love this! I love this! I only ever want to do this and I can't even come up with a basic idea? No goddamn... spark!?"

The papers fluttered dully as she stomped around, but they didn't offer any advice.

Writer's block was not a familiar concept to Kate Blackwell. All she had done from sixteen forward was write, write, write. And it was not something she was going to start becoming familiar with, because there was no way she had it, she assured herself, though the doubt was starting to creep in.

She just needed a spark. 

Just one...

little...

spark...

Just when Kate was considering setting all her notes on fire in her trashbin just to feel something, a knock came at her bedroom door.

"Finally," she muttered. She hopped over her mess of papers haphazardly, cringing every time her feet slapped against loose-leaf. She got to the door and cracked it open, fitting her face into the shallow opening. 

Kate smiled, seeing the familiar face on the other side.

"Heya, Cec. How are you doing?"

Much to Kate's surprise, Cecilia didn't have her usual easy response at the ready for her. And in the ten or so seconds of silence, presented to Kate as she waited for an answer, she noticed two very unusual things about the housekeeper.

One: Cecilia Knox, a woman who never went without a smile, looked like she had never felt joy in her life. Her skin had gone from peach to ashen, and her large, warm eyes had a glassy film over them. Her lips were set thin and pursed, like someone had pressed them deep into her aging skin and left them permanently curling downwards.

And two: instead of her trusty Skechers, the same style of shoes that she had been wearing as far back as Kate could remember, Cecilia was wearing a pair of freshly polished, new-looking Mary Janes. They didn't look at all comfortable and certainly not the sort of shoe someone would want to clean a house in, but they were definitely there and gleaming half as bright as the sun.

Kate swallowed hard and looked up from the housekeeper's shoes, taking in the perfectly pressed uniform on the woman. Chilling fear trickled down her spine. "Cec," she said slowly, "what's going on?"

"Your father has requested you take dinner with him, tonight."

For a long moment, Kate didn't move. Her gaze stayed stuck on the immaculate collar of the housekeeper's shirt, drowning in the harsh white fabric, trying to find reason in the perfect pleating. Or an escape, whatever came swifter.

Her hand slipped from the bedroom door to her side. The worn fabric of her hoodie provided solace for her shaky fingers, wrapping itself around her quickly forming fist. But it couldn't hide her from the freezing wind of fear that had suddenly filled the room, or the dread wrapping it's hand around her neck, foreboding and horrifying.

"I...don't understand."

"Your father has requested for you to join him for dinner," Cecilia repeated dully. "It will be served at six. He hopes you'll be down for then. Well dressed. And on your best behaviour."

Both of them knew exactly what the first part meant; that the 'requested' bit was nothing but a formality. It was a command, but one Kate was absolutely, positively, catastrophically perplexed by.

She racked through her brain for an answer. She was doing fine enough in school, so there was no reason for him to worry about that, if he was capable of that. She hadn't broken any laws, hadn't gotten into any scandalous behaviours. Her sister just posted on Instagram a boomerang of her ramen so she was still alive. There was no other family in the Blackwell name to die, so nothing like that.

Kate pinched the inside of her arm. It stung, much to her disappointment.

"I-I—why??!" She spluttered at poor Cecilia. "Why the hell would he want to do this? I-I don't remember the last time he said hi to me, I don't think he really wants to have dinner with—"

"—ma'am, you have about forty minutes to get ready for the meal. I think you should worry about that."

Kate didn't budge from the door. She pushed it open so she could fit her frame out, and leaned into the woman. "Cec, please. Give it to me straight. What's going on here?"

Cecilia sighed, and that singular action spoke volumes. She looked like she was absolutely exhausted; like she'd just lived through a war. In the five years that she had been the Blackwell's primary housekeeper, Kate hadn't ever seen her shaken. Let alone shell-shocked like this.

"Ma'am, I have to get back to work."

"Cec. Come on. What the hell am I getting into?"

The woman looked away from Kate, glancing down the hallway before turning back. Her voice was much lower when she spoke again. "I don't know. I'm sorry, dear. I haven't been told much."

"What have you been told? What does he want? Did I do something?!"

"I don't think it's about you," Cecilia whispered back, voice dropping even softer. "Mr. Blackwell...I believe he has a dinner guest."

Kate reeled back and nearly smacked her head into her door. "What? Who? And why would I need to be there for that? Doesn't he do that like, outside of this nightmare house?"

"I don't know."

"Well, why wouldn't he say something sooner?"

"I don't think this was planned, ma'am."

For once, Kate ignored the 'ma'am' in Cecilia's sentence, focused only on her trembling voice. "My father doesn't do spontaneous. That's ...this is...holy crap, Cec."

"I am sorry," and she truly sounded apologetic, though it did nothing to quell Kate's raging nerves. "I don't know what's going on. Mr. Blackwell asked me to prepare the dining room for three tonight a couple hours ago. He was...upset. He asked me to let you know to be ready for six, and be dressed nicely. And he told me to instruct you to behave."

Kate folded herself deeper into her large blue hoodie. She felt like she was eleven again, standing alone and wrapped in the only piece of her mother she had left, head spinning out like a car on black ice. Everything she knew was coming down around her shoulders, leaving her amongst rubble, and like for most of her formative years, she was alone in dealing with the fallout.

Dealing with writer's block seemed like a walk in the park compared to this.

"Is this...how worried should I be?"

"I don't know," Cecilia repeated sadly. "But Mr. Blackwell's in a very strange mood. He seems quite unlike himself."

Kate looked down to the floor, where she knew her father's office sat below. "I haven't even heard him. Didn't even know he was home." If he was so angry about this mysterious visitor, wouldn't she have heard at least one priceless knick-knack get smashed?

"I'm sorry, Kate. But," the older woman paused, wringing her hands in front of her. "I have to get back to work. You should get ready now."

"Will you be okay? I-I don't want him to do something."

Cecilia gave her a smile, but it was watery and far from her usual sunny demeanor. "Don't worry about me right now, Kate." Without another word, she peeled away and scurried back down the long hall of closed doors.

Kate watched her until she couldn't see the woman anymore. Once she was out of sight, she shut the door and promptly collapsed her weight against it, sliding down the wood haphazardly. Once she reached floor, a pile of limbs and frazzled nerves, she succumbed to the anxiety overwhelming her system. At least for a minute, Kate told herself; she'd give herself a minute for complete panic.

A very uncomfortable sensation of helplessness sat on her chest, and she had the sudden realisation that within the hour, something very strange, and probably very bad, was going to happen.

She wrapped her mother's hoodie as tightly around her body as she could, and dug deeper into the baby blue fabric. Her nose felt to the sleeve and even though it hadn't smelled like Delaney's jasmine perfume in years, she still inhaled deeply and imagined it was still there, holding her like a hug.

"This is not good, Blackwell," she whispered into the hoodie. "Not good. At all."

KATE FIDDLED WITH THE SLEEVES OF HER DRESS. She missed the security blanket feeling of her blue hoodie; the fragile mesh cuffs weren't relieving the fidget with. The flimsy fabric only made her more anxious as she walked. But, at least she would be dressed alright for dinner, wearing a smooth black silk dress with balloon-style mesh sleeves. She had bought it for a more exciting event — but guess it was now an impromptu family meeting look.

"Totally donating this after tonight," she grumbled to herself, heading for the main stairs. "R.I.P."

Kate didn't know what to expect, but she tried not to think about that as she tried not to trip on the carpet. She had picked out heels, too, though she rarely wore shoes through the house. It just seemed like something her father would want. So she forced herself into stockings and designer shoes she never wore, taking one step at a time like a baby deer's first steps.

The main staircase was decorated with portraits of all the Blackwell men and their families. Their eyes dug into Kate's spine. Their lips twitched with invisible smiles. All mocking her unfortunate circumstances.

"Piss off," she muttered at her great-grandfather's portrait. "You're dead. You don't get to laugh."

Simon Blackwell just smirked in heavy silence, leaving Kate to head on alone.

While she was getting ready, she had tried to figure out who the mysterious guest could be, to no avail. She didn't know who her father spent his time with — only that it wasn't her.

She knew what he did, vaguely. She knew the Blackwell legacy stood mainly in the biopharmaceuticals, starting with the great Simon Blackwell, who created a cure to the mysterious 'Scourge' in the 1930's. Some sort of plague, some kind of miracle drug; she didn't care much about the details, she just knew it was kind of revolutionary and he was some type of hero. She also knew Simon's kid William milked that money teat 'til it ran dry, and then he did what he could to make that money back. Got his fingers into every strain of medicine stuff he could.

Her father was a bit more creative than that — got into hotel-building, created hospitals, played hero and the like — but it was still the same. Money-hungry Mother Theresa types. So —

Halfway down the stairs, Kate stopped in her tracks.

The main staircase ended with a curve at the bottom of a wide, gleaming foyer. Everything dark-toned and polished for the gods, though no one was going to see it. The front doors sat to one side, and a large hallway lit by art-deco pendants curled away on the opposite end. A small black staff door sat near it. But there were also half a dozen other doors, all the same gorgeous dark oak, and all shut. Kate was used to barely glancing over the closed off rooms; she hadn't visited any of them in years. No one did that anymore.

But that night, the doors to the staircase's right were flung wide open, revealing the glorious dining room within. For a second, it felt like no time had passed at all. Like she was still eleven and her mother had called for dinner. The notes of Tchaikovsky could almost be heard in the background, and the smell of her mother's cooking danced just out of reach of her nose.

But then Kate blinked, and with a sinking chest realised all the life that once filled the dining room was sucked right out. The room was cold. The chandelier above, a great looming thing with bleeding diamonds and flickering flames, looked dull. The paintings covering the walls were grey-stained and miserable and the table was covered in black damask; nothing like what Delaney had picked out six years ago. Everything was lifeless.

But that wasn't all.

As Kate took the last few steps, heels clicking as she reached tile, a man stepped out from behind the dining room door. Unlike the haunted look of the room, he did look alive, but very strange. He was a tall man, but quite slim; like a sapling yearning for the warmth of sun. His all black suit hung awkwardly on his willowy frame, and half the shirt buttons were undone, revealing straggly black chest hair and several hanging chains. She couldn't tell if the jewels glittering across his neck and hands looked genuine or not, but they were numerous.

The man looked sorely out of place in the austere setting of the Blackwell dining room, a room that had been praised once upon a time by socialites and politicians and once even royalty. The kind of people with so much money stuffed up their ass they could no longer feel from the waist down suited the dourness of the room, not a man with such a large, pearly smile and an air of carelessness radiating from him like cologne.

Kate glanced over his unruly, unstyled mop of black hair, and the glimmering rings that decorated his folded fingers. She glanced over the scar gleaming on his upper left cheek, over the mismatched socks poking out from his slightly too short slacks. There was something weird about this man. Something...off, like an empty street in the Brooklyn summertime or a rose without thorns.

Carefully, she took another step forward, and wondered if this was some crazy prank. "Hello."

The man walked forward too, with much more enthusiasm. His eyes darted quick over her face, taking in each feature. He lingered over her hair, and his eyes remained higher than her gaze even when he spoke.

"Hello, m'dear," the stranger cooed, in a raspy, strange accent. "You look absolutely charming. You're, you're so grown up! I...wow."

She paused in her tracks. Her fingers dug harder into the mesh sleeves, nails scrabbling at the fragile fabric. "I don't believe we've met."

The stranger's easy smile faded a little. He gave a short chuckle, rubbing at the rough scruff on his jaw. A nervous habit, perhaps? "Ah. Yes, I forgot it's been a while. Quite a while, really. Time flies, dun'it?"

"Do we...know each other?"

"Yes. Well. Of sorts, I s'pose." He took a couple more steps forward. She could see his eyes finally under his dark brows, and they were a strong sky blue. They traced over her skin like they were trying to commit her to memory. "The last time we were together, you were quite a bit smaller. And I was...quite a bit bloodier. Not pleasant times. For either of us, course! Considering..." his words started to trail off.

Kate's brows furrowed. "I'm...sorry, is...?"

"Ah. Right! Silly me, goin' on like you can read my mind." His smile bloomed again even brighter than before. She noticed how one side rose higher the other, adding a roguish charm to his otherwise polished grin. "My name's Jaspar Byrne, dear. I'm your uncle."

Kate blinked.

The information rattled in her brain, unable to find a spot to settle in and properly process. In the chaos of everything else happening, the knowledge that her uncle was alive and now in her home smiling like a pirate was just a cherry on top with no place to go.

"Oh," Kate finally said, because she couldn't make herself say more.

"Yep! I know, I know I might not seem the part — it's been quite a while since I've aligned myself with Blackwell qualities, but..." he trailed off again, still rubbing at his jaw. "Well. That can be for later. Point is, I'm here now, and I'm delighted to see you again!"

Kate couldn't figure out if she was stuck in a fever dream or not.

It couldn't be real. Right? The dining table set, her father requesting dinner with her and a man she had only heard whispers about? Growing up, it had been heavily implied after he screwed over his family, the younger Blackwell had fled for a life of...not so great things. But here he was. Smiling at her. In her closed-off-for-six-years dining room. A room sealed since her mother's death, until what she had assumed would be the end of time.

Had she gone down a rabbit hole and just not noticed? Was the Cheshire Cat just around the corner, waiting? Was her head about to come off and get used for croquet for the Queen of Heart's game?

"I-I don't remember you," Kate stammered. "Sorry."

"Yes. We...have missed out on a lot of family time, haven't we?" He rubbed at his jaw again — some sort of nervous tick, Kate gathered. "I wish it wasn't that way. Truly, I do. I know I — your mother and I, we always wanted to have you girls surrounded by family. It's—"

"—my mother?"

Once again, Jaspar's smile wavered. It didn't entirely fall that time, but it was shallower than before. "Of course. Dear Del. You know, you're, you're her spitting image. Do you get that a lot?"

Kate felt faint, "I'm...not around a lot of people who remember what she looked like."

"Oh. Really? Del was such a figure in the community, she really went everywhere. I would'a thought—" Jaspar cut himself off again, muttering under his breath. "C'est la vie. Point is, you're every bit her daughter. Your sister took Killi's genes, and you ran with your mother's, yeah? That's, yeah. Crazy how genes work! Ha...ha."

Okay, so there was something very off about the man in front of her. It felt like despite his overly forwardness, he was holding himself back. And he didn't seem confident in anything he was saying, or maybe scared of saying the wrong thing? Kate wasn't sure, but there was a pressure building in between her temples, and the knot in her stomach wasn't getting any softer.

"Can I ask," she said slowly, folding her arms across her chest, "why you're here now? Was this planned?"

Jaspar laughed shortly. "Ah. Well. Not really. Sort of? That's a complicated question."

"Okay...?"

"Killi and I haven't always been on the best terms," he explained vaguely, waving a ring-clad hand through the air. "And the ol' bastard — oh, sorry, that's a no-no word — keeps being too busy for me! So, I decided to make a meeting happen. I needed to catch up, and I figured seeing you, that'd be a great bonus! So I, I insisted on you coming, too. I hope that's okay! I realise I didn't really ask or—"

"—no, it's fine," she said quickly, though she wasn't really confident about that. "I just wasn't expecting...this."

Jaspar's thick brows knitted low on his face. "My apologies. I would have thought your father would have mentioned it sooner."

That was Kate's cue to laugh, then, and it was as mirthless as her supposed uncle's had been. "Right. Well, he's been a little too busy for that."

"Wait, I—"

But before Jaspar could finish his question, someone cleared their throat from the other side of the dining room. Like a ghost, a man had appeared from seemingly nowhere, floating to the head of the dining table. A dining table that hadn't seen life in six years. A table no one had sat at since Kate was eleven and her mother was alive and her father sometimes actually smiled.

Kate's heart thumped in her throat, and her fingernails dug so hard into her sleeves, she could actually feel fabric ripping. She waited for him to disappear. For the show to end. To wake up and realise this was all some sick fucking dream.

"How about we save the catching up for over dinner, brother? I'd hate for my chef's hard work to go to waste."

Killian Blackwell smiled coldly at the pair of them, arms outstretched in a gesture that Kate supposed was meant to be welcoming. But all that she felt was fear. Heart-wrenching, bone-chilling fear that made her want to turn on her heels and run.

Please, Blackwell, wake up. This dream ain't fun anymore.

When Kate didn't speak or move, frozen like a deer in headlights, Jaspar filled in the silence. He smiled broadly and waved a hand her way. "Yes! Of course! C'mon, Katie, it's been really too long. I want to hear all about you, all about what you're into, all that I've missed!"

"It's just Kate," she said quietly. All the fire and brimstone she thought she'd have the next time she saw her father, had vanished. Her feet itched to take off in the opposite direction. It was hell to put one in front of the other. Honestly, she was surprised she was moving at all; she felt like her bones were going to shatter in her skin any second. Still, she somehow managed to take the seat Jaspar offered out to her. "Thank you."

She tried not to think about the fact that this used to be her sister's seat.

"Of course," he grinned, quickly swooping into the seat beside her. The seat little Kate used to sit in. "Ah! Isn't this nice?"

Killian took his seat too, several chairs down from both of them. He continued to smile as well, though Kate knew — and Jaspar probably did, too — that it was completely fake. "I'm glad we're settled, then. Donovan?"

Food was distributed swiftly, by a pale man Kate didn't recognise. She wondered where Pietro, their regular chef, was, though she didn't have the heart to ask.

The food looked incredible. Heaping plates with glossy steaks and creamy-looking potatoes. Donovan served Killian red wine with pursed lips and pale hands. Everything seemed and smelled delicious, but Kate knew she wasn't going to be able to stomach a crumb. Her insides were throwing the protests she couldn't, and even trying a bite would probably wreck her.

"This looks delicious, brother."

"Indeed," Killian agreed smoothly. "My usual chef is out with a...cold. But Donovan's done an exemplary job."

Kate kept her hands in her lap, curling into the smooth silk of her dress. She folded and unfolded the fabric between her fingers, trying to occupy her racing mind with something other than completely and utter panic.

No crying at the table, Blackwell, she warned herself. Keep it together. You're going to be fine.

"You look beautiful tonight, Katherine."

Okay, nevermind. You're so screwed.

Kate had spent years waiting for her father to acknowledge her again. Crying into her pillow, waiting outside his office door, throwing tantrums and starting fights just so he would say her name. But all that hope had fled before she had even set foot in the dining room, way before hearing him saying her name for the first time in six years.

And no amount of time or preparation could have steeled her to the sound of him finally speaking to her. Saying something kind, no less, when the last time they had spoken had been so damning.

She couldn't say anything back. She just stared at him and held back the bile building in her throat.

Luckily, the oddball Jaspar was there to save her skin, before her lack of response got too loud. "Isn't she a gem? I was telling her before, Killian; she looks just like Delaney."

Even from across the table, her father's throat-clearing was a deafening gunshot in her ears. "Yes. She does greatly resemble her mother."

Kate watched him look away, thick fingers flexing on his wine glass. It surprised her a little, to see him feel a hair of emotion. She didn't know he could do that anymore.

"You guys are so stiff," Jaspar joked, spearing a cube of his steak. He held it up to his nose for a sniff. "I mean, great saints! Are you guys always this quiet?"

Kate went to speak, to finally take a stab at her father. But one stone-cold glare and she immediately shrank down into her chair.

"It's been a long time since Katherine's seen you, brother," Killian said pointedly. "And this was a pleasant surprise, but a surprise visit, nonetheless."

Jaspar grinned through his mouthful of meat. "So tactful, Killi. Do you always talk like you're on one of your TV interviews?"

Kate hid a surprised smile with her water glass.

"I can only assume, you'd want to lead the conversation, considering you requested this dinner." Killian raised his own goblet to his lips, gulping down the dark red liquid. "Forgive me holding back."

"Ah. Well! Sure." The man looked from his brother to his niece, still smiling from ear to ear. She noticed how unlike her father, he just had water in his glass. That had to be intentional, but for what reason? "Kate. Tell me everything about yourself, please."

"I— um. Pardon?"

"I've missed too much! I need to know you again, my dear!" He leaned his hand into the palm of his hand. "Del kept me up to date from 1 to 9, but...I'm a little behind on the teen years."

Kate couldn't really process the idea that Jaspar was her father's brother. Past the whole, raving on about her mother bit (was that a bit? that was weird, right?!) he was so loud. And outspoken. And alive? She hadn't seen her father have a real smile in ages. She couldn't even remember what that actually looked like; she just had cheap copies of it, pressed into photographs. But Jaspar wore everything he felt on his face.

"I, well," she started hesitantly. "I...don't know where to start."

From across the table, her father's utensils clinked. She watched from the edge of her vision as he cut his steak into perfect cubes.

"Why don't you tell your uncle about school, Katherine."

Kate curled her hands into fists around her silk dress, and wondered what it would take to summon an ounce of Karma Kane's nonchalant courage and finally jab back at her father. But nothing came.

Her father watched her squirm from across the table. He speared a perfectly cut piece with his steak knife, holding it up to his lips, but not taking in the cube. His lip curled.

"Oh! Yes! Tell me; you're at Midtown, aren't you?" Jaspar leant closer to her, seemingly oblivious to the father-daughter tension. "You know, we went there, too?"

She nodded slowly. "Yes. The Blackwell name's plastered all over the school. Father's one of the revered alumni."

"What, I didn't make the cut for reverence?"

"Brother."

He looked over to Killian, miming outrage. "What? I thought someone would remember the little brother! But," his eyes darted to Kate. He gave her a wink. "Carry on, then. I'll save my outrage for later."

Despite the anxiety pounding at the insides of her stomach, Kate felt herself feeling a little bit more at ease. "Um, well," she really didn't know what to say — to either man. Her father obviously wanted something from her, but the only memo she'd received was 'best behaviour'. And Jaspar was a complete mystery. She barely knew him. Definitely didn't remember him.

"I'm enjoying school," she said, finally. "I'm in senior year. My favourite class is English."

"Oh! You're kidding?"

"No...?"

Jaspar clapped his hands. "You didn't tell me she had Del's love of word, too? I mean, Killi, really this is —"

"—Katherine excels in all her courses. She especially thrives in her chemistry class."

Kate felt a pulse of anger, faint but still there. Who was he, to make assumptions like that? "I...I mean, I'm doing fine."

"Save the modesty, kid! Embrace your beautiful brain! Shout it to the heavens, s'il te plait!"

"I just mean, I'm...thank you, but I'm nothing extraordinary."

But Jaspar didn't seem to take her hint. Instead, he just wanted to know more. He asked question after question about her; about her classes, her friends, even her favourite colour for some reason. He took in her answers like a parched dog being led to an oasis; and even after she answered, there were follow up question after follow up question after a bajillion more questions.

Kate didn't even have time to think. Well, past her budding theory about how her father was sick with a brain-altering illness and losing his freaking mind, and that was why this random sort-of-stranger was here and they were at the dinner table he couldn't eat at after his wife's death, and why he actually wanted to acknowledge his daughter's existence for no reason at all.

He did look a little pale. Or was that just the lighting?

Finally, after what felt like centuries, Jaspar's questions ebbed from a steady flow to a trickle, giving Kate a chance to gulp down some water and breathe. Killian had remained silent through it all. He just kept eating his food, each piece so perfectly proportioned and consumed, it made Kate's stomach churn.

"Well, brother." Jaspar pushed back in his chair. One hand tried to twirl his steak knife; the handle clanged awkwardly against his rings, but he didn't seem to care. "I mean, I knew Kate had to be at least a little extraordinary considering her genes, but...I mean, you must be so proud. She's absolutely wonderful!"

"You don't have to say that," she mumbled.

Jaspar waved her off. "No, no, I truly mean it. Killian, are you not overjoyed, with the child you've raised? I don't know how you did it. All alone, managing the family biz so well, too. Perfect in every way. Brava!"

Something in the air shifted. He didn't sound like he was just mindlessly complimenting, anymore.

"Mariana, of course, is I'm sure a gem, too. But since she wasn't available for my showering of praise, I guess the focus has to just be on Kate." Jaspar didn't look her way, even as he gestured. He kept his gaze steady on his brother. "You must be so proud of how far Delaney's baby girl has come."

With a grandiose flourish, Jaspar raised his glass to his mouth, hiding his cold smile behind the goblet. But his eyes still glittered cold and sly, bearing down the table at his brother. "Aren't you proud, brother?"

Kate gulped.

Killian's hand snaked around his wine glass again, gripping it tighter than before. It almost looked like it would shatter over his grasp, fingers turning white as they clung to the reddened goblet. He kept up with Jaspar's pointed stare, but his face was completely void of any emotion. Kate had no idea what her father was feeling; what he was going to do next.

After several long moments of silence, Killian broke first.

He looked away and back to his plate. He smiled, though it looked more like a wolf baring teeth.

"I am, of course. I take great pride in my daughter's success."

And there, Kate made a grave mistake.

Without thinking, she reacted with a sharp snort, a hand clapping over her lips just a second too late.

Crap. 

Immediately, Killian's gaze was on her. And that time, she knew exactly what he was feeling. His eyes flashed with thinly veiled emotion, though his face remained absolutely calm. He watched her carefully, the faintest smirk tickling his lips. Daring her to go on.

"Are you alright, Katherine?"

As Kate froze under his venomous gaze, a little voice taunted from the back of her mind, the braver part of Kate's brain run by the bold Karma Kane. The damage's been done, Blackwell, coaxed Kane, might as well roll with it. Stand up to him. You know you want to. You might not get another shot at it.

Kate pushed her chair back and stood, though she didn't have a plan or reason why. She ignored Jaspar's gasp of possibly Italian and stared down her father in a brief surge of shaky confidence. Her fingers relaxed from her dress, folding behind her back in a mess of anxious muscles.

Her knees knocked together. She swallowed hard.

"I, I just...I don't know what I'm doing here, Father."

Come on, Blackwell. Bite. Tell him how you feel.

His canine-like smirk grew. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean. Are you feeling alright?"

Anger pushed her next words, fueling her Kane-like bravery. "I just don't get the game you're playing. And this whole... uh... caring father character. What do you want from me?"

"Katherine," Killian raised his hand with his knife still clasped tight, "please. Take your seat, daughter."

"Why?"

"Why?"

"Why would I do that?" Kate spluttered. "So, so we can pretend like we do talk to each other? Like you don't hate me? I, I mean, I don't know why you've decided to have a full family reunion now, but next time?" Her tone rose. She felt herself grow a little bolder. "Like, let — let me rehearse my lines first, so I can pretend a little better for you!"

Okay, that was kind of lame Blackwell. But it's something.

Her father finally rose to his feet, slowly and controlled. He dropped his knife; weirdly, his bare hand was scarier, especially as it closed into a tight fist. His smile finally dropped into a careful, condescending frown. "I don't know what's going on here, but you're welcome to be excused if you're going to continue acting like this."

She scoffed. "Like what? Like the kid you've scorned the last six years? Sorry, Father; that's just me."

Killian didn't flinch. "Cecilia told me you were feeling better today. I take it that might not be the case." As a haughty aside to his brother, he said, "Katherine has had a high fever the past few days."

"Oh, well if—"

"—what kinda gaslighting girlboss stunt is this?!" She spat back, feeling entirely like Kane now. "What are you saying?! Why? What are we doing right now?!"

Kate could feel her throat getting drier and drier, and her face felt much hotter than it should be. Adrenaline and pent-up rage could only do so much; something that felt suspiciously like panic was starting to trickle in. Pretending to be someone else could only do so much. She wasn't going to win this fight.

Still, she ploughed on. "I'm having dinner with you in a room we haven't used in years. With your brother? Someone I didn't even know was alive? And you're speaking to me?! I don't know what we're doing. But I don't want to do it. I'm not playing this game."

"I'm sorry," Jaspar apologised, though the curl to his lip suggested he wasn't that sorry. "I didn't realise my arrival would cause such a kerfuffle. I should have thought—"

"—there is no problem here." Killian smiled again. "I'll call for Cecilia. She'll help you get comfortable. And we can discuss this later."

Kate just gaped at the man in front of her, who could not possibly be her father. Could it? She hadn't seen him up close in a while. Was this like that Avril Lavigne conspiracy theory Didi subscribed to? Did someone kill the real Killian Blackwell and steal his identity? That would make sense, all considering the absolutely mess that was surrounding her. It wouldn't explain her uncle showing up out of the blue — but maybe he'd suspected his brother was a fake? Or a clone? What was the theory, again?

Whatever. She could theorize later. After she got out of this.

"No need," she muttered, kicking her chair back. "I'll go."

"What? No! We can still talk, Katie! I feel like I still have missed so much! I have so much to say!"

But despite Jaspar's spluttering and the ill-coursed desire to go back and scream at her father everything she had been waiting to say, Kate didn't turn back. She swung open the dining room door and made sure to slam it as loudly shut as she could muster. She ripped off her too-tall shoes and threw them across the foyer as hard as she could: they bounced awkwardly off the wall before slumping to the floor.

All of Kane's bravado and fire drained from her body, leaving Kate just Kate again.

Just Kate felt a sob bubble in her throat, and she choked it back, glaring at the shoes like they were the biggest problem in her life. Something sharp stung at her eyes, and quickly a film of tears made her vision go blurry.

"Fuck," she swore, with all the vindication she could muster. She swiped at her tears angrily. "Fuck, Blackwell."







AUTHOR'S NOTE:
I wanted to post this last week, because it was literally WRITTEN and good to go except for the header & a couple of edits, which makes me mad but oh well. I was too sick at the moment, but here we are with a big fat chapter to make up for it lol. 

I feel bad that this book is moving so slowly; I know that this is barely tip-toing into the main plot now and it's annoying probably - I just have a lot I want to build on, and I feel like once the ball starts rolling, everything's gonna be go, go, go so I'm trying to layer in exposition now. My apologies for anyone reading who's bored lol.

THANK YOU
for reading.