Page 19 of Reptile Dysfunction (Harmony Glen #11)
Chapter Seventeen
S loane
The notification count on HarmonyUncensored.com hits triple digits while I’m making coffee in my parents’ gourmet kitchen. I hide a smile as I notice a text from Thad: Sterling misses you. The others too, but mostly Sterling.
A picture follows—the empty side of the bed where I slept—covers still bunched from our energetic lovemaking.
Tell Sterling I miss him too, I text back, adding a heart emoji that feels simultaneously too much and not enough.
The reply comes instantly: Great. Now he’s doing that thing where he checks his reflection in every shiny surface. Yesterday, I caught him admiring himself in a soup spoon. When can we see you again? My heart flutters at the “we” that so clearly means I.
I’ll have to check my busy schedule, I reply. When is Sterling free? I assume he keeps his own calendar.
Very funny. He says Tuesday works, but only if you bring that lip gloss he likes. Apparently, regular lips are “beneath his standards” now.
My phone buzzes with another notification—an email from an editor at a regional magazine interested in featuring my blog’s coverage of monster integration stories. The visibility could help establish me as a serious journalist, independent of my father’s influence.
“Interesting reading this morning.”
Nearly dropping my mug, I turn to find my mother wheeling herself into the kitchen. She’s dressed for physical therapy, but her tablet displays my latest blog post.
“All these years living in Harmony Glen,” she muses, “watching people avoid certain places, seeing teenagers suddenly change their troublemaking ways overnight… I always wondered if there was more going on than mere coincidence.”
“Mom—”
“Did you know I once tried to explore those caves outside town? Senior year of college. Suddenly, I got the most overwhelming feeling that I should turn back. Now I understand why.” She maneuvers her wheelchair to the breakfast nook with practiced grace. “It’s time these stories were told.”
“You never told me.”
“There were a lot of things we didn’t talk about before the Revelation. But I think it’s time we did.”
Before I can respond, my father’s voice carries from his study. “Sloane Elizabeth Whitaker!”
“Speaking of things we don’t talk about.” Mom squeezes my hand. “Stand your ground, sweetheart. Some truths need telling.”
Dad storms in, tablet clutched like evidence of a crime. “Would you care to explain this?”
“The blog post about enforcer culture?” Keeping my voice steady, I meet his gaze. “I thought it was pretty self-explanatory.”
“This is not the article we discussed.” His campaign smile is nowhere in sight. “This… exposé about intimidation tactics and shadow operations? This is not the celebration piece I assigned.”
“No,” I agree. “It’s better. It’s real.”
“It’s dangerous.” He sets the tablet down with controlled irritation. “Do you have any idea how this could affect community relations? The celebration planning? My re-election?”
The words hit like precision strikes, targeting years of ingrained guilt about family reputation. But something has changed—maybe it’s the memory of Thad’s snakes reaching for me trustingly, or that my mother’s eyes hold quiet approval.
“Actually,” I say, straightening my spine, “I do know how it could affect things. It could help people understand what monsters sacrificed to keep everyone safe. It could show that integration isn’t just about sanitized success stories—it’s about acknowledging the hard parts too.”
“The hard parts?” His laugh holds no humor. “Like dating an ex-enforcer? Yes, I know about that too. The whole town is talking about you and the Gorgon.”
“Thaddeus,” Mom corrects mildly. “His name is Thaddeus, Charles. And word has it he’s quite charming once you get past the intimidation act. Did you know he teaches children to swim? Apparently, they’re not afraid of his snakes at all.”
Something shifts in Dad’s expression—surprise, maybe uncertainty. “That’s not the point—”
“Isn’t it?” I step closer, channeling every ounce of journalistic training. “You’ve spent five years pushing the polished integration narrative. But real integration means accepting all of it—the messy parts, the scary parts, the parts that make people uncomfortable.”
“And your blog? That’s about integration?”
“It’s about truth .” The word feels like freedom on my tongue. “All of it. Not just the parts that look good in campaign photos.”
His fingers drum against the tablet, a tell I recognize from countless dinner table debates. “The Bradley situation—”
“Is finished .” My voice holds steel now. “And if you’re more concerned about his family’s merger plans than your daughter’s happiness, that’s something we should probably discuss too.”
Mom actually claps. “Well said.”
“This isn’t a game, Sloane.” But Dad’s tone has shifted from anger to something closer to resignation. “Actions have consequences.”
“Yes,” I agree. “Like monsters spending centuries hiding who they are. Like enforcers using fear to keep everyone safe because there was no other choice. Like daughters pretending to be flawless because their fathers never gave them another option.”
The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken truths. Then Mom clears her throat.
“Charles,” she says quietly, “when was the last time you read one of Sloane’s articles? Really read it, not just checked for alignment with your campaign message?”
He blinks. “I…”
“Because I have. All of them. Including this morning’s blog post about how a werewolf now teaches children how to find their way home if lost in the woods.” She wheels closer to him. “Our daughter isn’t just writing stories, Charles. She’s writing history. The real history.”
My phone buzzes with another notification. It’s a comment on my blog post from Sebastian’s library account, adding his perspective as a Gorgon with different abilities than his younger brother. The comments section fills with more monster voices, sharing their own pre-Revelation experiences.
“It’s too late to stop it anyway,” I tell my father gently. “People are talking. Really talking, maybe for the first time since the Revelation. Don’t you want to be part of that conversation?”
He stares at the tablet for a long moment, jaw working silently. “This… this isn’t what we discussed for the celebration.”
“No,” I agree. “But it’s what needed to be said.”
“The celebration committee will have questions at our next meeting. Which I assume will be soon after this post. They’ll have serious concerns about narrative control.”
“Then we’ll answer them honestly.”
His laugh is clipped, bitter. “Honestly. When did that become the campaign strategy?”
“Maybe it’s long overdue, Dad.”
“Your Gorgon—Thaddeus—he should probably be there. If we’re going to tell the real story, we should do it properly.”
It’s not approval, not exactly. But it’s something close to acceptance.
“I’ll let him know.” Already composing the text in my head, I smile. “Though he might need a special chair. His back is still recovering from an unfortunate Pilates incident.”
“Pilates?” Dad’s eyebrows rise. “The enforcer does Pilates?”
“Tried to,” Mom corrects with a grin. “Apparently, it didn’t go well. But that’s another story entirely.”
Looking between them—my mother’s quiet strength, my father’s reluctant evolution—I feel something shift. Maybe it’s about all of us learning how to be real in a world that prefers pretty lies.
My phone buzzes again: a text from Thad.
Your blog post is trending locally. The Benevolent Busybodies are organizing a support rally. Send help.
Smiling, I type back: Too late. They’ve probably already made t-shirts.
His response is immediate: Sterling wants one. He’s shameless. Says if Sebastian’s snakes can have bowties, he wants a t-shirt.
“Go,” Mom says, recognizing my expression. “Your father and I have some catching up to do. It’s been a while since we’ve had a true heart-to-heart.”
Dad looks thoughtful, opens his mouth as if to complain, then his face lights in a smile. “You’re right. It’s been too damn long. Let’s talk over coffee on the balcony. When was the last time we enjoyed the view?”
But I’m already heading out, my heart lighter than it’s been in years. The drive to Thad’s feels different this time—like I’m finally choosing my own path instead of following someone else’s map.