Chapter 30 Found
We drove back to the estate in separate cars, for appearances, and because I needed the twenty-minute drive to scream into the void.
When I arrived, the gate was open. But instead of paparazzi, there were black vans with tinted windows. Men in gray coveralls were unloading equipment that looked more military than construction.
I parked and walked up the steps.
The front door was open.
Inside, the foyer was buzzing. Not with the chaotic noise of my old crew, but with a quiet, efficient hum. These men moved with purpose. They were stripping the charred wood from the library entrance, bagging debris, setting up containment fields.
It was impressive.
"Ms. Hayes," a man with a clipboard approached me. He was older, with a scar running through his eyebrow. "I’m Silas. Mr. Johnston said you’re the boss."
"I am," I said. "What’s the status?"
"Structural integrity of the east wing is compromised," Silas said clinically. "We’re shoring it up with steel beams. We can have it sealed and safe by tonight. The rest of the house... we’re sweeping for bugs. Again."
"Good."
"Mr. Johnston is in the kitchen," Silas added. "With a guest."
I froze. "A guest?"
"A woman. Older. Very... loud."
My heart stopped. Ida?
I ran to the kitchen.
I burst through the door, my hand reaching for the knife in my boot.
But it wasn't Ida.
It was worse.
It was Agatha.
She was standing by the island, holding a tablet, her face purple with rage. Tristan was leaning against the counter, drinking coffee, looking bored.
"Minerva!" Agatha shrieked when she saw me. "Finally! Perhaps you can explain to my nephew why he is throwing away his life for a woman who attracts arsonists!"
I relaxed, dropping my hand. "Good morning, Agatha. I see you’ve heard the news."
"The whole city has heard the news!" She waved the tablet at me. "Fires! Shootings! Tabloid scandals! And now... now he tells me he’s invited Ida back? Have you both lost your minds?"
"We’re trapping her, Agatha," Tristan said calmly. "It’s a strategy."
"It’s suicide!" she yelled. "Ida is unstable! She tried to kill you!"
"She tried to kill Minerva," Tristan corrected. "She loves me. That’s the problem."
Agatha sputtered. "And you think inviting her to a party will fix that? You think she’ll just... confess over canapés?"
"We have evidence," I said, stepping forward. "We have Eleanor’s diary."
Agatha went still. Her eyes widened.
"Eleanor’s diary?" she whispered. "You found it?"
"Yes," I said. "Ida kept it. In a storage unit. Along with the poison she used."
Agatha sank onto a stool. She looked suddenly very old.
"I knew," she whispered.
Tristan and I exchanged a look.
"You knew what?" Tristan asked, his voice sharp.
"I knew she... she wasn't right," Agatha said, staring at her hands. "When Eleanor got sick... Ida was always there. Hovering. And after she died... Charles, he found things. Dead animals in the garden. Buried."
"And he did nothing?" Tristan demanded.
"He was afraid," Agatha admitted. "He was afraid of what it meant. That his daughter was... broken. So he sent her away to boarding school. He tried to distance her."
"And left me with her on holidays," Tristan said bitterly.
"We thought she would grow out of it!" Agatha cried. "We thought it was just... childhood acting out!"
"It was murder, Agatha," I said cold. "And now she’s coming back to finish the job."
Agatha looked up at me. There was fear in her eyes, but also something else. Respect?
"You’re going to catch her?" she asked.
"We’re going to bury her," I said.
Agatha nodded slowly. She stood up, straightening her blazer.
"Good," she said. "I’ll handle the guest list. If we’re throwing a trap, it needs to look like a party. I’ll make sure everyone who matters is there. The Senator. The Board. Witnesses."
"Thank you, Agatha," Tristan said, surprised.
"Don't thank me," she snapped. "I’m doing this for the family name. If Ida goes down, she goes down alone. I won't have the Johnston legacy dragged into the mud with her."
She marched to the door. She stopped and looked back at me.
"Minerva," she said.
"Yes?"
"Don't wear white," she advised. "It shows blood."
She left.
Silas and his team secured the library. They installed hidden cameras, not for Ida to watch us, but for us to watch her. They reinforced the doors. They turned the Master Suite into a panic room with ballistic glass windows.
I worked in the dining room, sketching out the "party" layout.
It had to be perfect. The flow of the guests. The lighting. The sound system where we would play the diary recording.
At 6:00 PM, Tristan found me.
"Take a break," he said.
"I’m almost done with the lighting schematic."
"The lighting can wait. Come with me."
He led me upstairs. Not to the Master Suite. To the room next door.
The Nursery.
I stopped in the doorway.
The room was empty. The old furniture was gone, cleared out by the crew.
But the walls...
The walls were freshly painted.
The pale, buttery yellow glowed in the twilight. It was soft. It was hopeful.
And in the center of the room, on the floor, was a small, white box.
"What is this?" I whispered.
"Open it," Tristan said.
I walked over. I knelt down. I opened the box.
Inside was a single, white candle. And a lighter.
"A memorial," Tristan said from the doorway. "Like you said."
I looked at the candle. I looked at the yellow walls.
I felt the tears prick my eyes again. But this time, they weren't tears of rage. They were tears of release.
"Tristan," I choked out.
He walked over. He knelt beside me.
"Light it," he said.
I took the lighter. My hands were shaking. I lit the wick.
The flame flickered, then steadied. A small, bright light in the empty room.
We sat there in silence, watching the candle burn.
"I’m sorry we never got to meet you," I whispered to the flame. "I’m sorry I couldn't protect you."
Tristan put his arm around me. He rested his head on my shoulder.
"We’ll protect this house," he vowed. "For them."
We stayed there until the candle burned low.
Then, Tristan stood up. He helped me up.
"Come on," he said. "We have one more thing to do."
"What?"
"We have to sleep," he said. "Tomorrow is the party. Tomorrow, Ida comes home."
He led me out of the nursery. He closed the door. He locked it.
We walked to the Master Suite.
We got into bed.
We didn't touch. We didn't speak. We just lay there, side by side, listening to the silence of the house.
But it wasn't empty silence anymore.
It was the silence of a held breath before the scream.
Somewhere in the City
Ida sat in her hotel room, a cheap motel near the airport.
She was packing a bag. A small bag. Passport. Cash. The gun.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from Tristan.
Ida. Please come tomorrow. The housewarming. I miss you. I need my sister.
She stared at the screen.
She smiled. A twisted, broken smile.
"He needs me," she whispered. "He finally realized he needs me."
She typed a reply.
I’ll be there, little brother. I’ll always be there.
She hit send.
She put the phone in her pocket.
She looked at herself in the mirror. Her nose was taped. Her eye was bruised.
"She hit me," she whispered to her reflection. "She hurt me."
She touched the bruise.
"Tomorrow," she promised. "Tomorrow, I burn the witch."