Page 2 of Reptile Dysfunction (Harmony Glen #11)

Chapter Two

S loane

My Louboutins click across the YMCA parking lot as the smell of chlorine slowly fades from my nostrils.

The encounter with Thaddeus Fangborn plays on repeat in my mind—those piercing amber eyes, the way his snakes moved independently yet somehow in harmony, and most intriguingly, the flash of vulnerability beneath all that gorgeous, intimidating muscle.

The real story is there. Not in the sanitized, community-friendly narrative my father wants for the Revelation Day celebration.

“Sloane!”

Speak of the devil. I turn just as my father’s sleek town car pulls up, the engine idling like it’s already plotting my demise. He waves from the backseat, his campaign smile already in place.

Classic ambush—Dad’s getting predictable.

“I thought you were meeting with advertisers all afternoon,” I say, sliding into the plush leather seat beside him.

“Finished early.” He straightens his already impeccable tie. “Thought I’d give you a ride home and check on your progress with the celebration piece. Did you speak with the younger Gorgon brother?”

My father never does anything without calculation. He probably had his assistant monitoring my whereabouts. The joys of owning a local newspaper combined with small-town politics.

“I did. He was teaching swimming lessons.” Twenty-seven years as Charles Whitaker’s daughter has taught me to keep my mouth shut when necessary.

“Wonderful!” He claps his hands together once, a gesture he uses at town events to convey enthusiasm.

“The monsters-as-community-contributors angle is exactly what we need. Teachers, librarians, public servants—it reinforces the integration narrative beautifully. This might be the year Harmony Glen finally gets featured on Good Morning America.”

“Frankly, I like our town the way it is. I’m not sure we need to be in the national spotlight.”

My dad looks at me as though I’ve grown another head. The idea of staying out of the limelight would never occur to him in a hundred years.

My thoughts dart back to Thad, the notebook feeling heavy in my purse, weighted with questions I didn’t ask. What happened to the monsters who couldn’t or wouldn’t integrate? What about those whose abilities made humans uncomfortable?

“He doesn’t seem particularly eager to participate in the celebration,” I say absently

Father waves this concern away. “His brother is already involved. Family loyalty will bring him around. Besides, we need representation from the more… visually distinctive monster residents.”

Translation: We need scary-looking monsters doing non-threatening things to make humans feel safe.

“He was an enforcer before the Revelation.” The words slip out before I can stop them.

Dad’s smile falters for just a second. “Where did you hear that term?”

“Research.” The satisfaction of catching him off-guard is short-lived. “What exactly did enforcers do, Dad?”

“That’s not relevant to your assignment.” His tone shifts to what I call his “take-charge voice.” It’s authoritative and slightly patronizing. “Focus on the present and future, Sloane. The fifth anniversary is about progress, not dwelling on a complicated past.”

Through the window, Harmony Glen rolls by—quaint storefronts with monster and human employees working side by side, parks where children of various species play together. It’s genuinely beautiful, this integration my father has helped champion. But beneath the surface…

“Don’t you think people deserve the whole story?” My gaze stays fixed on the passing scenery. “The real one?”

“People deserve peace,” he says firmly. “They deserve to feel safe in their community. Digging up potentially upsetting aspects of pre-Revelation monster society doesn’t serve anyone.”

The car turns onto the long driveway of our family home—a sprawling Victorian that’s been featured in regional magazines as a “seamless blend of historical charm and modern comfort.” What those glossy spreads don’t show is my mother’s recovery setup in the east wing or the way my childhood bedroom feels like a time capsule I’ve been forced back into.

“Just focus on the celebration angle, sweetheart. Use those investigative journalism skills again if you go back to New York City.”

As if my return to Harmony Glen might not be temporary.

As if Mom’s hip replacement with its endless complications and lengthy recovery is just a short-term inconvenience.

As if giving up my apartment and promising position at the Tribune to come home six months ago was somehow a permanent decision.

“Of course.” The smile I give him is one he taught me—polished, agreeable, revealing nothing. “I should check on Mom before dinner.”

“Her physical therapist said she’s making progress.” He squeezes my hand. “And Sloane? Try to find a nice angle on the Gorgon boy. His brother’s been a wonderful asset to our narrative.”

As he strides toward his home office, my smile fades.

My father means well. But his obsession with controlling the narrative—both the town’s and mine—only strengthens my resolve to find the truth.

And did he really just call a thirty-year-old Gorgon a boy ?

I’ll have to give him a heads-up about how patronizing that sounds.

Inside my bedroom, I kick off my heels with a groan of relief.

The space remains largely unchanged from high school—debate trophies, journalism awards, beauty pageant tiaras, and a bulletin board of acceptance letters from top schools.

A shrine to the overachieving daughter who my father proudly displayed by his side at campaign events.

The only new addition is my laptop on the antique desk where I once wrote editorials for the school paper.

Flipping it open, I navigate past the draft of the official Revelation Day article and open a private browser window.

A few keystrokes bring up the domain registration page for a site I’ve been contemplating for weeks.

HarmonyUncensored.com

My finger hovers over the “Purchase” button. Starting an anonymous blog would infuriate my father, potentially damage his carefully crafted public image, and possibly get me fired from the part-time position at his paper—my only professional foothold since returning to Harmony Glen.

It would also be the first truly independent thing I’ve done since my journalism degree and three years of climbing the ladder at the Tribune proved insufficient against family obligations.

The doorbell chimes before I can decide what to do about the domain name. From my window, I spot an all-too-familiar red Porsche in the driveway. It belongs to Bradley Harrington III, son of the town’s most prominent developer and my father’s preferred candidate for my “suitable match.”

Swallowing a groan, I head downstairs just in time to hear our housekeeper usher him into the foyer.

“Bradley. What a surprise.”

“Is it?” His smile suggests it shouldn’t be. “Your father mentioned you’d be home early today. Thought I’d swing by with dinner plans.” He gives me a practiced smile, showing just the right amount of teeth to be interpreted as “happy to see you.”

The mention of my father’s involvement makes my jaw tighten. “How thoughtful of you to check my schedule with him first.”

The sarcasm sails right over his expertly coiffed head. “Well, you know how busy you get with your little newspaper projects. Easier to coordinate through the proper channels.”

By “proper channels,” he means the man who still believes he can run my life. Five years after monsters came out of hiding, and somehow the patriarchy remains the most stubborn supernatural force in Harmony Glen.

“Actually, I have plans tonight.” The lie comes easily. “Research for my article, plus Mom has her evening PT exercises I help with.”

“The Revelation piece?” He invites himself further into the house, moving past me toward the living room. “Your dad filled me in. Sounds like a fluff assignment. Should be wrapped up quickly, right?”

My eyes narrow slightly. “Actually, I’m pursuing a more in-depth angle. The history of monster integration is fascinating, especially the untold parts.”

Bradley’s polite mask slips for just a second, revealing the disdain beneath. “Why complicate things? Nobody wants to hear about the messy parts. Just stick to the feel-good stuff.”

Just like my father. Just like every authority figure in this town. Don’t rock the boat. Don’t ask uncomfortable questions. Don’t challenge the narrative.

My phone vibrates with a text notification. Unknown number: Did you really wear thousand-dollar shoes to a public pool? I Googled those red soles. Tell me they were knock-offs.

A smile tugs at my lips. Thaddeus Fangborn, using the number on my business card. Calling me out on my Louboutins, of all things.

“Something important?” Bradley’s tone suggests nothing could be more important than he is.

“Work.” I slide the phone back into my pocket. “Which reminds me, I really do need to prepare for tomorrow’s interviews. And check on Mom.”

“Fine, fine.” He sighs dramatically. “Rain check on dinner? I’m thinking Marcello’s on Thursday. I already have reservations.”

Of course he does. “I’ll check my schedule.” Or he could ask my father to keep him updated. It’s all I can do to keep from rolling my eyes.

“Your father thought it would be good for us to… reconnect properly since you’ve been back.”

I almost shut him down even harder, but then decide that the idea of a “conciliatory dinner” to smooth things over with Dad does have appeal, even if the company doesn’t. “Thursday works,” I hear myself saying. “Just dinner, though. Nothing fancy.”

After finally ushering Bradley out, I return to my laptop and the domain registration page. With newfound resolution, I click “Purchase.” The confirmation screen blinks at me, exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure.

My phone buzzes again: Your 5:15 pm coffee tomorrow better be worth my time, Whitaker.

I tap out a reply: If you get there before me, I take it black, one sugar. And I’ll wear more appropriate footwear, Scout’s honor.

His response comes almost immediately: Doesn’t matter what you wear. Just bring better questions. Oh, in case you forgot, you said you were buying.

Challenge accepted. Grinning, I pull up my research notes and assemble questions that would give my father heart palpitations if he knew I was asking them.

The official Revelation Day article can wait. The real story—the one about intimidating Gorgon enforcers with eyes that flash amber when they’re angry—that’s the one I’m after. And Thaddeus doesn’t realize it yet, but he’s going to help me tell it.

Every instinct I’ve developed as a journalist tells me there’s more to him than the brooding swim instructor act. Behind those penetrating eyes and impressive muscles lies a history that nobody in Harmony Glen is talking about.

But they will. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from growing up as the newspaper owner’s daughter, it’s that every sanitized narrative has dirt swept under its pristine surface.

And I’ve never been afraid to get my hands dirty.