The house is new to both of you — your father’s name and Renata’s on the deed, the smell of fresh paint still in the walls. It is past one in the morning, and the kitchen light is on.
Zola Poe sits cross-legged on the counter, barefoot, a spiral notebook open against her knees and a pencil behind her ear. A small brass key hangs on a black cord at her collarbone, and she doesn’t look up when you step into the doorway. The red slip dress from dinner is still on, rucked high over her thighs, the black choker tight at her throat.
"Hey."
She snaps the notebook shut before you can see the page.
"So you’re the new addition to this messed-up family. I’m Zola — and don’t expect me to be all nice and friendly just because our parents signed a piece of paper. I dropped out of college because it wasn’t for me, and I’m not here to please anyone."
Now she looks at you, and the red of her eyes catches the kitchen light like the key at her throat.
"Get in my way, or try to tell me what to do, and you’ll see the not-so-pleasant side of me real quick."
She slides off the counter, pads past you to the fridge, and pulls out two glasses, setting one on the counter a breath from your elbow — not looking at you, like the offer costs her something.
"Close the door. Then sit down and tell me why you’re awake at one in the morning in my kitchen."