Tate liked to believe he knew Violet Harmon—really knew her. Not in the shallow, passing way most people claimed to know each other, but in the intimate, threadbare sense that came from hours of talking in dim light, from watching her hands shake when she was angry, or how she smoked when she didn’t want to cry. He knew what her nightmares looked like because sometimes, they mirrored his. He knew how she curled her toes under when lying on her bed, like she didn’t trust the floor not to vanish beneath her. He knew which poems she only pretended to like, which bands she listened to when she wanted to feel numb, and how her laugh always came out like it surprised her. He’d watched her sleep. He’d studied the soft parts of her face when she wasn’t looking. He knew her.

Or at least, he thought he did.

The doorbell rang, sharp and out of place against the usual quiet murmur of the Harmon house. Tate lifted his head, brow furrowing slightly. That sound alone was enough to set his nerves on edge. It was strange. Not a knock, not the sound of keys in the door, but a polite ding-dong, like a neighbor had come by to ask for sugar. But no one ever came to this house unless they had to. The Murder House didn’t exactly welcome visitors. People crossed the street to avoid walking past it. And as for Ben and Vivien—they were both out. Therapy sessions, errands, a crumbling marriage to tend to. They wouldn’t ring the doorbell to their own home, not unless they’d forgotten their keys, and even then, they’d have called first.

Tate sat up straighter from where he’d been lounging in Violet’s room, draped over the edge of her bed like a bored cat. His boots dangled off, untied laces resting on the worn rug. The window was cracked just enough to let the smoke out from Violet’s cigarette, but it did little good. The air was still heavy with it—sweet and bitter.

“Ah, fuck,” Violet muttered suddenly, as if slapped by a thought. She stubbed her cigarette out against the edge of a vintage ashtray and stood up abruptly, waving her hand toward the open window with a weak attempt at dispersing the smoke. “I forgot he was coming.”

Tate’s eyes narrowed. “He? Who the hell is he?” He reached out automatically, fingers curling lightly around her arm—not in aggression, but in confusion. A reflex, like a ghost trying to grab onto the living. There was a strange tone in his voice. Not quite jealousy, not yet. More like curiosity wrapped in the threat of something darker.

Violet paused mid-step, casting him a look that was equal parts amused and puzzled. “Did I never tell you? He’s my older brother.” She gently peeled his hand off, brushing his fingers like dust from her cardigan, and turned toward the hallway.

Tate stood there, still and blinking, as the soft pad of her footsteps disappeared down the stairs. An older brother? Her older brother?

That wasn’t in the script.

His mind stuttered for a moment, snagging on the unfamiliar concept like a splinter. It didn’t fit. It didn’t make sense. In all the late-night talks, all the hours they’d spent folded into each other’s pain, she’d never mentioned a sibling. Not once. Not in the quiet mutterings about her dad’s bullshit or her mom’s tight smiles. Not when she spoke about being alone at school, or how she never really fit. It was always just her. Violet, the only child. That was part of the mythology—the lonely girl in the haunted house, bruised around the edges, tragic and sharp. She didn’t have a brother.

Unless she did.

Unless there was more to her than she’d shown him, cracks in the story he hadn’t noticed. And that wasn’t supposed to happen. Tate was the one with the secrets. Tate was the ghost with the red-stained hands and the shattered memory. She wasn’t supposed to have mysteries.

He drifted toward the window, looking down. Sure enough, a figure was walking up the path—a silhouette shaped like someone real. Male. Confident. Not a teenager. Maybe early twenties. Jeans. Jacket. Something about his posture irked Tate instantly. The kind of casual authority that came from not having to prove yourself. The opposite of Tate in every possible way.

The front door creaked open below.

“Tate?” Violet called faintly from downstairs. “Be nice.”

The warning echoed up the stairwell like a shot fired before battle.

Be nice.

He scoffed quietly, pulling away from the window and slumping back onto the bed. His mind spun with possibilities—who was this guy, really? Was he just here to visit? Why now? Why hadn’t she told Tate? Did he know about the ghosts? About him?

He didn’t like not knowing. He didn’t like the idea of Violet having parts of herself that hadn’t been offered to him. It made his chest tighten, like the air was going sour. He flopped onto his back and stared at the ceiling, jaw clenched.

Violet’s laugh drifted up the stairs, light and unguarded. Tate closed his eyes and tried not to feel like the walls were getting smaller.

An older brother, huh?

Yeah. Things were definitely about to get interesting.