Work Text:
The sea air in Perkins Cove smells of salt, rotting kelp, and charred, waterlogged pine. Inside the crumbling boathouse, the stench of black soot still clings to the exposed rafters, a persistent stain from the night their life split in two. The floorboards groan underfoot as the Atlantic churns directly beneath the slatted gaps, black water slapping rhythmically against the pylons. Late June heat hangs thick in the dark, heavy with humidity, but the draft rising from the ocean is ice.
Anna stands near the warped edge of the slip, her silhouette framed by the ragged opening where the double doors used to be. She shifts her weight from foot to foot, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of an oversized, faded hoodie.
"Matt came by earlier," she says softly, her voice barely carrying over the tide. "He said... he said he saw what happened that night. The night Mom died."
Alex doesn't move from her spot against the far wall. The shadows swallow the jagged, silvery burn scars trailing up her left forearm, but her fingers instinctively trace the raised tissue through the fabric of her sleeve. Her brow furrows, her throat tightening with immediate skepticism. "He didn't tell you right then?" she asks, her voice dropping into a low, sharp rasp. "Suspicious."
"Rachel intervened," Anna explains quickly, turning slightly toward her sister, her eyes wide in the gloom. "She stepped in before he could say anything more. But I couldn't just leave it like that, Alex. I asked him to meet me at the bluffs at midnight."
Alex pulls her wrist away from her face, checking the faint glow of her digital watch. The green numbers cut through the dark: 11:32 PM. "It's half past eleven now," she says, pushing off the wall with a quiet, decisive kick of her boot. "Let's go."
They move together out into the cool night air, leaving the ghost of the burned structure behind them. The path up the cliffs is a place of muscle memory, a dangerous, winding scramble over slick granite and exposed pine roots that they have navigated since early childhood. Above them, a thin crescent moon hangs low in the ink-black sky, casting a meager, pale sliver of light across the jagged face of the bluffs. Below, the ocean crashed violently against the rocks, spraying cold mist up into the night. Anna leads the way, her breathing shallow and fast, her low-top sneakers slipping occasionally on the damp needles coating the dirt.
Alex stays half a step behind, her eyes darting across the tree line, hyper-vigilant, every sense dialed in to the rustle of wind through the scrub oaks. They don't speak; the sheer drop to their left requires total concentration, but the silence between them is taut with an anxious, vibrating energy. When they reach the wide ledge overlooking the Cove, Alex halts abruptly at the edge of the pine grove. She reaches out, catching Anna's shoulder, and gently pulls her back into the deep shadow of the canopy.
"I'm staying right here by the tree line," Alex whispers, her breath fanning over Anna's temple. "Give you some privacy with your boyfriend. But I'm watching."
Anna nods, swallowing hard, and steps out into the dim moonlight alone. She doesn't have to wait long. The crunch of dry twigs signals Matt's approach from the northern trail. He emerges into the clearing, wearing his dark windbreaker, his hair damp from the sea air. The moment he sees Anna standing near the ledge, relief washes over his face. He closes the distance between them quickly, reaching for her, and pulls her into a brief, desperate kiss. Anna clings to him for a fraction of a second before pulling back just enough to look into his eyes, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"Matt, please," Anna breathes out, her voice trembling. "Tell me what you meant earlier."
Matt runs a hand through his hair, glancing nervously back toward the shadows before focusing entirely on her. His voice is tight, clipped with an urgency that makes Anna's stomach plummet. "It wasn't Rachel, Anna. Rachel didn't kill Maya. It was Steven."
The name hangs in the damp air like a physical blow. Anna blinks, taking a step backward, shaking her head in immediate, violent denial. "No... it can't be my dad," she stammers, her voice cracking as her brain frantically tries to reorder the pieces. "Rachel changed her name. She-- she has a whole secret past--"
"She was escaping an abusive husband!" Matt interrupts, his hands coming up to grasp Anna's upper arms, desperate to make her understand. "I snuck out to see you that night. Ten months ago. I was coming up the side path, and I heard your parents arguing inside. They were screaming over your dad's affair with Rachel. I watched your dad through the window... Anna, he doused the boathouse in gasoline. He stood there with a box of matches, threatening to light it right in front of her."
Anna freezes, the color draining entirely from her face. "He... he didn't," she whispers.
"He didn't light it then," Matt clarifies quickly, his words rushing out in a breathless tumble. "He backed off. He walked away, throwing the gas can aside."
"That doesn't explain--"
"It was after I left your room," Matt cuts in, his grip tightening slightly before he drops his hands. "I snuck back out the way I came, down the trellis. Alex was standing by the boathouse smoking a cigarette, talking about something with your mom through the window. She made fun of me, like she always does—said something snarky—and then she warned me when your dad started coming back down the path. I ducked behind that old wooden lobster dugout trap in the brush and hid."
Anna's chest heaves, her eyes fixed on Matt's face as if searching for a punchline that isn't coming. "Matt, stop..."
"I don't know if he remembered what he'd done earlier with the gas, or if he just snapped," Matt continues, his voice shaking with a sudden, raw edge of memory. "But his voice, Anna. It was scary like... Remember when you first introduced me to him? When he sat me down in his study and was interrogating me like a murder victim? Scary shit like that, but worse. Cold. Dead." He takes a ragged breath, the crescent moon reflecting off the sheen of sweat on his forehead. "He smoked out there with her. Alex came back out a minute later with the glass lantern—said something about refilling the oil for your mom. Steven got mad. He shoved her, hard. When he hit her, he let go of his lit cigarette, and Alex dropped the lantern. The spark caught the fumes. The whole house just went up in flames. Instantly."
The world seems to tilt beneath Anna's feet. The roar of the ocean below swells into a deafening thrum in her ears. "You..." Anna's breath catches in her throat, a choked, terrible sound. She looks at Matt as if seeing a total stranger. "You stood there? You watched the fire take my mom? You watched my sister burn!?"
"I couldn't move!" Matt cries out, taking a frantic step toward her, his hands extended in a plea for grace. "I was frozen, Anna! You remember my dad was a fireman, right? You know what happened to him! I saw that fire blow up, and all I could think about was the courtroom... when that judge let the arsonist go free. The fucker who started the fire that sent my dad into life support!"
Matt's eyes glisten with unshed tears, his chest heaving as the weight of three years of silence collapses out of him. "It's been three years," he chokes out, his voice breaking entirely. "And he's still in a coma, you know? Every time I look at a fire, I'm twelve years old again, standing in a hospital room. I froze, Anna. I couldn't move."
The rage surging through Anna falters, colliding head-on with a sudden, agonizing wave of empathy and shared trauma. She looks at Matt's wrecked face, remembering the long, quiet afternoons in his living room, the framed photos of his father in full gear, the oppressive shadow of the hospital visits that had defined his youth.
"Matt..." Anna breathes, her voice small, hollowed out by grief. "I'm... I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have..."
She stops, the realization of the absolute scope of the lie slamming back into her chest. Her dad. The man who made her breakfast. The man who locked her away in a clinic. The man who blamed Alex. Everything she believed about her family, about her sister, about the monster under their roof—it was all a lie. A carefully constructed, terrifying lie.
Anna begins to shake violently. Her knees buckle slightly, her hands trembling so hard she has to wrap her arms around her chest just to keep from flying apart. She takes a shuddering, gasping breath, the air burning her lungs.
Matt sees her staggering and reaches out, taking a step forward. "Anna, hey, don't--"
Before his hand can touch her fabric, a dark figure explodes out from the shadow of the pine trees. Alex doesn't yell. She doesn't address Matt, doesn't even glance at him as she pushes past him with a force that sends him stumbling back onto the grass. She pays zero attention to the fact that she has completely shattered her cover or startled him half to death. Her entire universe shrinks down instantly to the sobbing, shaking girl in front of her.
"I've got you," Alex mutters fiercely, her voice thick with protective rage and tender devotion. She catches Anna before her sister's knees hit the dirt, wrapping her arms tightly around Anna's trembling frame. She pulls Anna's face directly into her shoulder, tucking her head under her chin, anchoring her against the cold night wind. "I'm right here. I'm right here, Anna."
Anna clings to Alex's jacket, her fingers digging desperately into the leather, her whole body wracked with deep, silent sobs. She buries her face in the curve of Alex's neck, breathing in the familiar, grounding scent of salt, soap, and faint smoke. Over Anna's head, Alex stares straight ahead at the dark expanse of the ocean, her eyes flat, dark, and utterly devoid of fear. The truth is finally out in the open. The poison has a name.
"Rachel's just as much of a victim," Anna chokes out against Alex's neck, her breath hitching wildly as the horrific logic of their reality clicks into place. "She traded an abusive boyfriend... for a wife killer."
Alex tightens her grip on her sister, her jaw setting into a hard, unforgiving line. She looks back toward the sprawling dark shape of the Rydell mansion sitting atop the distant rise—where their father was currently sleeping, comfortable and unpunished.
"We need to kill him," Alex whispers into Anna's hair, her tone entirely devoid of hesitation, quiet and razor-sharp. "Before he can kill her. Or us."