Chapter 16 Ida’s Help
The air in the Master Suite was thick with the scent of sawdust and fresh primer.
I stood in the center of the room, my boots coated in a fine layer of white dust, watching the painters roll the first coat of Morning Mist onto the walls. It was a pale, buttery yellow the color of a sunrise I wasn't sure I believed in.
It was Thursday. Two days since the blueprint dispute. Two days since I had agreed to paint Tristan’s bedroom the color of our dead child’s nursery.
I hadn't slept.
The leather satchel of journals was locked in the safe in my guest room, but its contents were burned into the back of my eyelids. Every time I blinked, I saw Ida’s jagged handwriting. I put the cleaner in her tea. She’s bleeding. Victory.
I was renovating a house with a murderer. I was sleeping down the hall from a man who loved her.
"Boss?"
I snapped out of my daze. Russo was standing in the doorway, holding a clipboard.
"The electricians are done with the rough-in for the sconces," he said. "Do you want to sign off before we close the wall?"
"Yes," I said, rubbing my temples. A headache had been gnawing at the base of my skull since sunrise. "I’ll be right there."
Russo nodded and left.
I took a deep breath, inhaling the chemical tang of the paint. I needed coffee. I needed caffeine to keep the ghosts at bay.
I walked out into the hallway, heading for the stairs. The house was humming with the noise of twenty men working, a symphony of drills and hammers that usually soothed me. Today, it just felt loud.
As I reached the landing, I saw him.
Tristan was coming up the stairs.
He looked... lighter today. The dark circles under his eyes had faded slightly. He was wearing a casual gray button-down, the sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms, and he was carrying a cardboard tray of coffees and a white bakery box.
He spotted me and stopped, a hesitant smile touching his lips.
"Peace offering," he said, lifting the tray.
I paused, my hand gripping the banister. "I thought we established that you pay me, Tristan. You don't need to feed me."
"I’m not feeding the architect," he said, climbing the last few steps until he was standing on the landing with me. "I’m feeding the woman who agreed to paint my walls yellow."
He held out a cup. It was a large paper cup with a generic coffee shop logo on the side.
"Black," he said. "Like your soul. Or so you claim."
I looked at the cup. I looked at his face. He was trying. It was pathetic, really, how hard he was trying to bridge the gap between us with caffeine and paint colors.
"And the box?" I asked, nodding at the bakery box.
"Donuts," he said. "From that place in the village you used to like. The one with the old lady who always gave us an extra glazed."
My stomach tightened. I remembered that place. We used to go there on Sunday mornings, before the accusations, before the fall.
"I don't eat sugar anymore," I lied.
"Liar," he whispered. "You eat sugar when you’re stressed. And you’ve been grinding your teeth for three days."
He wasn't wrong.
I took the coffee cup. It was warm against my cold fingers.
"Fine," I said. "But if there are sprinkles, I’m firing you."
He chuckled. "No sprinkles. Just an old-fashioned glaze."
We walked down the hall toward the library, my workspace. The air between us was easier than it had been. The truce we had struck over the blueprints seemed to be holding.
We entered the library. It was stark, bright, and cold under the LED lights.
Tristan set the box on my glass desk and opened it. The smell of yeast and sugar wafted out, cutting through the sterile scent of the room.
"So," he said, leaning against the edge of the desk. "The yellow paint. How does it look?"
"It looks like a lemon exploded," I said, taking a sip of the coffee. It was hot, bitter, and strong. Exactly what I needed.
"It looks hopeful," he corrected. He picked up his own cup—a latte, judging by the foam on the lid. "I walked past the room earlier. The light hits it differently now. It feels... warm."
"It’s paint, Tristan. Not magic." I took another long sip, letting the caffeine hit my bloodstream.
"Maybe," he said. "But it feels different. The whole house feels different since you came back. It’s louder, messier... but it’s alive. For five years, this place felt like a museum. Now, it feels like something is happening."
He looked at me over the rim of his cup. His eyes were soft, unguarded.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For doing this. I know it costs you something to be here."
I froze, the cup halfway to my mouth.
It costs me everything, I thought. It costs me my sanity. It costs me the memory of my dead baby every time I look at you.
But I didn't say that. I just shrugged.
"It costs you four hundred an hour," I said.
He laughed. He reached into the box and pulled out a donut. He broke it in half and held a piece out to me.
"Eat," he commanded gently. "You look pale."
I hesitated. Then, I took the piece of donut. I took a bite. The sugar dissolved on my tongue, a sudden rush of sweetness that made my headache recede slightly.
I washed it down with another large gulp of coffee.
"It’s good," I admitted.
"See?" He smiled, taking a bite of his own half. "I know what you like."
I frowned.
There was a taste in the coffee. Something beneath the roast. Something... nutty.
I smacked my lips, trying to place it.
"Did you get this from the village too?" I asked, looking at the cup.
"No," Tristan said, chewing. "I picked up the donuts in the village, but the coffee place had a line out the door. I got these from the gate."
My blood ran cold.
I lowered the cup slowly. "The gate?"
"Yeah." Tristan took another sip of his latte. "Ida dropped them off. She was waiting by the security booth when I drove back in. She had a carrier. Said she wanted to apologize for the scene in the kitchen yesterday. Said she bought us our usuals."
The room seemed to tilt. The bright white lights of the library stretched and warped.
Ida.
"You drank it?" I whispered.
"Yeah. It’s fine, Mina. She’s trying to make amends. She looked terrible, actually. Crying. I think banning her really shook her up."
I stared at him. He was drinking it. He was fine.
But my throat...
My throat felt tight.
I coughed. It was a dry, scratchy sound.
"Mina?" Tristan frowned, setting his cup down. "You okay?"
I looked at the coffee in my hand. I sniffed it. Really sniffed it.
Under the dark roast, there was a scent I hadn't noticed before because the heat masked it.
Peanut oil. Or maybe concentrated peanut extract.
I am deathly allergic to peanuts.
Ida knew that.
She knew it because five years ago, she used to double-check every restaurant reservation. We have to be careful with Mina, she would say. We don't want an accident.
"What’s in this?" I rasped. My voice sounded wet, gurgling.
Tristan’s face changed. The softness vanished, replaced by confusion. "Coffee. Black. Just how you like it."
"Read... the label," I wheezed. I dropped the cup.
It hit the glass desk. Brown liquid splashed over the blueprints, soaking into the paper. It dripped onto the floor.
Tristan grabbed the cup. He looked at the side.
"It just says 'Black'," he said frantically. "Mina, what’s wrong? You’re turning red."
I clawed at my throat. It felt like a fist was closing around my windpipe. My tongue felt too big for my mouth. Heat was spreading across my chest and up my neck.
"Peanuts," I choked out. "She... spiked... it."
Tristan’s eyes widened in horror. "No. No, she knows you’re allergic. She wouldn't..."
He sniffed the cup.
He smelled it. The distinct, oily scent of roasted peanuts.
"Oh my god," he whispered.
My knees gave out.
I slumped against the desk, sliding down to the floor. The world was narrowing down to a pinprick of light. The sound of the construction in the hallway sounded miles away, underwater.
"Mina!"
Tristan was on his knees beside me instantly. His hands were on my face.
"Breathe," he shouted. "Mina, look at me! Breathe!"
I tried. I opened my mouth, gasping like a fish on a dock, but nothing came in. My airway was sealing shut.
Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through the haze. I was going to die. I was going to die on the floor of the library, killed by the same woman who killed my baby, while the man who loved her watched.
No.
I grabbed Tristan’s shirt. I bunched the fabric in my fist, pulling him closer.
"Epi..." I mouthed. "Bag."
"Epipen?" Tristan yelled. "Do you have one?"
I nodded weakly, pointing to my leather satchel near the door.
Tristan scrambled up. He sprinted to the bag. He dumped it out. Blueprints, pens, my laptop, and the journals spilled onto the floor.
He found it. The yellow plastic tube.
He ran back to me. His hands were shaking so hard he almost dropped it.
"Okay," he panted, his face pale with terror. "Okay, I’ve got it. Leg?"
I nodded.
He ripped the cap off. He grabbed my thigh, his grip bruising through my cargo pants.
"I’m sorry," he sobbed. "I’m so sorry."
He swung his arm.
The needle punched through the denim and into my muscle.
A jolt of fire shot through my leg. The adrenaline hit my system like a kick to the chest.
My heart hammered so fast it hurt.
Tristan held the pen in place, counting aloud, his voice breaking. "One... two... three..."
He pulled it out. He threw it aside.
He grabbed my face again. "Mina? Come on. Come back to me."
I gasped.
A thin, whistling stream of air forced its way into my lungs. It burned. It tasted of copper and fear. But it was air.
I coughed, a violent, hacking spasm that bent me double.
"That’s it," Tristan encouraged, pulling me into his chest. He wrapped his arms around me, rocking me. "Breathe. Just breathe. I’ve got you."
I clung to him. I buried my face in his shirt, shaking uncontrollably. The terror was receding, replaced by the jittery, high-voltage shake of the epinephrine.
"She tried to kill me," I rasped against his chest.
Tristan went rigid.
He didn't argue. He didn't defend her. He didn't say it was an accident.
He just held me tighter, his hand gripping the back of my head, pressing me into his heartbeat.
"I gave it to you," he whispered. His voice sounded like it was coming from a broken throat. "I handed you the cup. I did this."
"No," I wheezed, pulling back to look at him.
My vision was still swimming, but I saw him clearly. He was crying. Silent, horrified tears were streaming down his face.
"She used you," I said. "She used you to get to me."
He looked at the spilled coffee on the desk. He looked at the empty Epipen on the floor.
Then, he looked at the door.
The expression on his face changed. The grief evaporated, replaced by something cold. Something ancient and violent.
"Russo!" he roared.
The sound was so loud it startled me.
The door flew open. Russo and Kenji stood there, looking alarmed.
"Call 911," Tristan ordered, not looking away from the door. "Tell them we have an anaphylactic shock. Tell them we need an ambulance immediately."
"On it," Kenji said, pulling out his phone.
"Russo," Tristan said. His voice dropped to a deadly calm. "Seal the gate. No one leaves. No one enters."
"You got it, Mr. Johnston."
Russo ran.
Tristan looked back down at me. He brushed the hair off my sweaty forehead. His touch was gentle, trembling.
"You’re going to be okay," he promised. "I’m not going to let you die."
"I know," I whispered.
"And Ida..." He stopped. He swallowed hard, the muscles in his throat working.
He picked me up. He scooped me into his arms like I weighed nothing, standing up with me cradled against his chest.
"Where are we going?" I asked weakly.
"Outside," he said. "To wait for the ambulance. I’m not keeping you in this house a second longer."
He carried me out of the library, past the staring workmen, down the hall.
As we reached the front door, I looked up at him.
"Tristan," I said. "The journals."
He paused. "What?"
"In my bag. The ones that fell out."
"Forget the journals, Mina."
"Don't let anyone touch them," I insisted, gripping his shirt. "Lock them up. Promise me."
He looked down at me. He saw the desperation in my eyes.
"I promise," he said. "I’ll lock them in the safe as soon as you’re in the ambulance."
He kicked the front door open.
The cool, damp air hit my face.
We stood on the porch, waiting for the sirens.
Tristan didn't put me down. He held me, staring out at the driveway, staring at the gate where his sister had handed him a cup of coffee and a death sentence.
"She’s dead to me," he whispered.
The Gatehouse
Ida sat in her car, parked just down the road from the estate entrance. She had the window rolled down, listening.
She checked her watch. Ten minutes since Tristan drove in.
She waited for the sirens.
She smiled, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel.
"Oops," she whispered to the rearview mirror. "Must have been cross-contamination at the roastery. So tragic."
Then, she heard it.
The wail of a siren in the distance. Getting closer.
Her smile widened.
"Goodbye, Minerva," she said.
She put the car in gear and drove away, humming a lullaby. The same lullaby she used to sing to Tristan when their mother died.
Hush, little baby, don't say a word...