Chapter 128: We've Got Nothing

Cecilia

"Mrs. Winston, please," Samuel said, moving to her side with a glass of water he'd apparently prepared earlier. "You need to calm down. You're working yourself into a state—"

"I won't calm down!" Irene knocked the glass from his hands, sending water splashing across the expensive carpet. "Not while she's here! Not while she's planning to kill me too!"

Daniel shot me a look—Give us a minute—and I nodded, backing toward the door even as my mind raced with what Irene had just said.

She thinks I had my mother killed?

I stepped out into the hallway, pulling the door partially closed behind me, and leaned against the wall, trying to process what I'd just witnessed.

Irene Winston, the ice queen herself, completely unraveling. Accusing me of murder. Genuinely terrified.

Through the partially open door, I could hear Daniel's voice, low and soothing, trying to calm his aunt down. Samuel's quieter tones joining in. And Irene's continued sobbing, punctuated by incoherent fragments of accusations.

"—demon—destroyed my family—Arthur will hate me—she'll kill me—"

I don't know how long I stood there, listening to the chaos inside the room gradually subside into quieter crying, then eventually silence. Long enough that my legs started to ache from standing still, long enough that the afternoon sun shifted and sent a beam of light through the hallway window to fall across my feet.

Finally, the door opened fully, and Daniel stepped out. His face was pale, his expression troubled in a way that made my stomach drop.

"What happened?" I asked quietly. "Is she okay?"

Daniel ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up at odd angles. "She's... asleep. Finally. Samuel gave her something to help her rest." He paused, seeming to struggle with how to phrase what he needed to say next. "Ceci, we need to talk. Now."

He led me down the hallway to a small sitting room, far enough from Irene's suite that we wouldn't be overheard. The moment the door closed behind us, he turned to face me with an expression I couldn't quite read.

"My aunt," he said slowly, carefully, "believes that Arthur killed your mother."

The words hung in the air between us, impossible and terrible.

"That's insane," I said immediately, my voice coming out sharper than I intended. "Arthur would never—he's the most honorable person I know. He doesn't just kill people because it's convenient."

"I know," Daniel said, but there was something in his tone that made me look at him more closely. "But Ceci, she's completely convinced. She kept saying it over and over while we were trying to calm her down. That you're a demon who seduced her son, that you manipulated Arthur into having William arrested—"

"His father murdered my father," I interrupted, feeling heat flood my face. "We didn't manipulate anything. We found evidence, we went to the police, we did everything by the book. Arthur was the one who insisted on it, who refused to cover it up even though it meant destroying his own father."

"I know," Daniel said again, and this time his voice was gentler. "I heard about that. About what William did, about Arthur's decision to turn him in." He paused. "It was the right thing to do. The brave thing. Justice should work that way—no one should be above the law, not even family."

Something in my chest loosened slightly at his words, at the genuine respect in his voice when he talked about Arthur's choice.

"But," Daniel continued, and I felt that looseness immediately tighten back up, "my aunt claims that after your mother was arrested, after she gave that statement implicating Irene—Arthur had her killed. Because your mother tried to have someone assault you."

"No." The word came out flat, certain. "Arthur wouldn't do that—"

I stopped, because suddenly I was remembering that phone call I'd overheard, Arthur's voice cold and hard as he'd said something about making sure someone understood there were consequences, about making them wish they'd never set foot in his house.

I'd assumed he was talking about Matthias, about the man who'd tried to assault me. But what if—

No. No, I'm not going down that road.

"Ceci?" Daniel's voice pulled me back. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." I forced myself to meet his eyes. "And I'm telling you, Arthur didn't kill my mother. He's not capable of that. He's—" I struggled to find the right words. "He's too good. Too principled. Even when he's angry, even when someone's hurt me, he doesn't just... he doesn't murder people."

Daniel studied my face for a long moment, and I could see him weighing my words, trying to decide if he believed them.

"Okay," he said finally. "I believe you. Or at least, I believe that you believe it." He paused. "But Ceci, you have to understand—the way my aunt was talking, the absolute conviction in her voice—she genuinely thinks Arthur is capable of murder. And she's terrified that she's next."

"So what?" I heard the bitterness creep into my voice. "She orchestrated my assault. She manipulated my mother into drugging me, into setting me up to be—" I couldn't finish the sentence. "She deserves to be afraid."

"Maybe," Daniel said quietly. "But if she's this scared, this convinced that Arthur is coming for her—what if she does something desperate? What if she tries to hurt you first, as some kind of preemptive strike?"

The thought hadn't occurred to me, and it sent a chill down my spine. "You think she'd—"

"I don't know what she'd do," Daniel admitted. "But I know that scared people make dangerous choices. And right now, my aunt is very, very scared."

We sat in silence for a moment, both of us processing the implications of what he'd just said.

"So where does this leave us?" I asked finally. "With the investigation, with trying to prove what really happened to my mother?"

Daniel's expression turned frustrated, his hands clenching into fists on his knees. "Honestly? We're at a dead end. The diary isn't enough—we can't prove Irene actually paid your mother, can't prove she orchestrated the assault. And now my aunt is claiming Arthur killed your mother, which—even if it's not true—muddies the waters even more."

He looked at me, and I could see the defeat in his eyes. "I don't believe your mother committed suicide. I think someone killed her, someone with power and resources and the ability to make it look like she did it herself. But without concrete evidence, without something that definitively points to who did it and how—"

He spread his hands helplessly. "We've got nothing."