I just read your posts about the sinclair brothers sister getting turned into a wax statue and I was curious if we could get one more chapter about once the house of wax burns down and Bo and Vincent die, their sister is waiting for them in the afterlife so they can watch over Lester and Jonsey?
A/n: I love this so much! this will be the final chapter I'll do for this Sinclair sister but I'm more than happy to do other new chapters whenever you guys want! ________
Bo and Vincent had always been careful—meticulous with every kill, calculated with every word, cautious with every move. They spoke rarely but moved as one, each thought mirrored in the other. Bo was the mouthpiece, all charm and venom. Vincent, the hands—the sculptor in shadows, crafting death into beauty.
For years, that precision served them. A perfect routine in a dying town. The wax museum, the chapel, the bait. Victims came, screamed, and were silenced—eternally preserved in wax.
But even the sharpest blades dull with time. And rot, when buried long enough, begins to smell.
Unspoken resentment clawed its way to the surface. Little things first: a snapped tool. A name said too sharply. A door left ajar. But those things festered. Grew into accusations, into shouting matches, into silence so heavy it made the air difficult to breathe.
They fought more often, and they fought harder. Sometimes it was over nothing. Sometimes it was over her.
Especially after her.
The girl whose laughter once echoed through Ambrose. The sister they lost too soon. The name they never spoke.
Lester tried to be the peacekeeper. He always did. The youngest Sinclair, the one who wasn’t born broken. He cleaned the messes, played dumb when the outsiders asked questions. Led the lambs to slaughter, yes—but never struck the final blow. That wasn’t his part. He kept his distance. He watched.
After her death, he had no choice.
His brothers changed.
Bo hardened, lashing out with fists and cruel words. Vincent went inward, retreating to his basement kingdom of wax and silence. Lester—too small to stop them—learned to keep quiet. His voice held no weight after she was gone.
And so he became the space between two crumbling towers.
The tether between two halves of something long since broken.
It was supposed to be an ordinary day.
Bo was staging another funeral for their long-dead mother, arranging lilies by a coffin filled with nothing but lies. Vincent worked below the museum, adding the final touches to a wax figure so lifelike it almost breathed. Lester was out by the roadkill pit, boots sunk into mud, Jonesy trotting beside him.
Just another day in Ambrose.
But something was wrong.
They felt it in their bones—each of them, in their own way.
Bo, not one for superstition, felt the weight of something pressing down on him like a hand against his chest. The birds were silent. The wind blew backward. He lit a cigarette and didn’t finish it. Every creak of the floorboards made him flinch.
If there was a god, Bo thought bitterly, where the hell had He been all this time?
Vincent noticed the shift in his own way. His brush strokes faltered. His fingers trembled. He heard a whisper behind him, soft and sweet and gone before he could turn. Something in the wax room smelled like honeysuckle. Her scent. Her memory. The statue in front of him—the one he’d been working on—suddenly looked too much like her.
He blamed the nerves. Her anniversary was near.
But Lester… Lester knew.
He always noticed the signs. And they were everywhere.
There was no fresh roadkill that day. The traps were empty. Even the crows had left. The forest held its breath.
Jonesy kept wandering toward the museum, whining at something unseen.
Lester didn’t question it. He believed. He always had.
She was still here. Watching. Waiting.
He just didn’t know for what.
It all fell apart quickly.
Carly and Nick had come to Ambrose. Uninvited, but not unexpected. Bo had grown reckless. Too many bodies. Too many close calls. Lester tried to warn him.
Bo didn’t listen.
He never listened.
Bo died screaming—just like he came into the world. A fight he started and couldn't finish. His skull cracked open, blood pooling on wax-covered floorboards. A moment of rage, a lifetime of consequences. The light in his eyes went out before he hit the ground.
Vincent found him there. Dropped to his knees. Hands shaking. The only person who ever understood him—gone.
He held Bo like something fragile, like a broken statue he could glue back together.
And when the scream tore from his throat, it didn’t sound human.
He ran.
Up the stairs. Through the flickering halls. Past wax faces that didn’t blink.
Carly was there, cornered, her back to a wall. A bat in her hands. Fear in her eyes.
“You don’t have to do this,” she said, voice trembling. “I saw everything. The scars. The highchairs. The stories. Your sister. I read the papers.”
Vincent stopped. Breathing hard.
“You’re not a monster,” she said. “Bo was. You’re an artist. He used you. Lied to you. Do you really think your mother—your sister—would have wanted this?”
That name.
That memory.
Her.
He roared—something primal and wordless—and lunged.
But then Nick was there. Knife raised. The walls around them burned. Wax melted into rivers of false faces.
The floor gave way beneath Vincent.
And he fell—into the fire.
Into the arms of his already-dead brother.
Together in death, just as they were in birth.
Ambrose burned. The House of Wax collapsed into ash and bone. A twisted monument reduced to smoke.
But death wasn’t the end.
They awoke in silence.
No flames. No pain.
Just warmth.
Bo stirred first, confused. Vincent sat up beside him, untouched by scars. Whole again. They looked at each other—and saw not killers, not monsters—but boys. Brothers. Young. Tired.
The sky above them stretched wide and soft, painted in gold and gentle blue. A field of wheat rolled in every direction. The breeze was warm. The air smelled like summer.
Then, they heard it.
A laugh.
Light. Familiar.
They followed it, feet sinking into grass that seemed to heal beneath each step. Time felt suspended. Space, irrelevant. They moved as one again.
In the distance stood a tree—an old oak with branches wide enough to shade the whole world.
A rope swing swayed beneath it.
And there she was.
Their sister.
Pale dress fluttering. Barefoot. Smiling.
She looked exactly as they remembered. Younger, maybe. Or maybe they were older now, and time had just collapsed in on itself.
“About time,” she said, smiling.
Vincent was the first to move. He reached out. She met his hand with her own—warm and solid. Not wax. Not memory. Real.
Her eyes flicked to Bo. He hesitated, rooted in place.
“I never blamed you,” she said, voice soft as the wind.
Bo’s eyes filled. “I failed you…”
She shook her head. “You protected me. As long as you could. You never failed.”
Tears slipped down his face. For the first time in decades, he let himself cry.
She pulled them both close. Wrapped her arms around them like she used to. And for the first time in so, so long—they were whole.
You tugged them forward, barefoot through the grass like a child again.
“I want to show you something,” you said.
You led them to a quiet pond, its waters still and clear. They knelt beside it. The surface shimmered.
In its reflection, they saw Lester.
Packing up what was left of Ambrose. His truck loaded with what little could be salvaged. Jonesy nudging at his side.
He looked tired. Haunted. But not broken.
Not yet.
“Now,” you said, tapping the water’s surface, “we get to help him.”
Vincent stared at the image. Bo rested a hand on his shoulder.
In that moment, Lester paused. Looked up at the sky—like he felt something shift. Like he wasn’t so alone anymore.
The three of you sat together, the field swaying gently around you.
And you waited.
You would wait for Lester. As long as it took.
And when he joined you, you’d all be together again.
Whole.
At peace.
Until then—you watched over him.
Together. Forever.
