Chapter 33 Video
The arrest was over, but the echo of it lingered in the house like a persistent hum.
The guests had left, escorted out by Silas and his team with apologies and non-disclosure agreements. The police had taken Ida away in the back of a squad car, screaming Tristan’s name until the window rolled up.
The house was silent again.
Tristan and I sat in the library—not the burnt one, but the temporary office Silas had set up in the solarium. It was filled with plants, the glass walls looking out onto the dark garden.
We were drinking scotch. The cheap stuff from the liquor store, because we were too tired to find anything better.
"She’s gone," Tristan said. He was staring into his glass, his tie undone, his face pale. "It’s actually over."
"The immediate threat is over," I corrected. "But the legal battle... the trial... that’s just beginning."
"Vane called," he said. "The DA is already building the case. With the diary... and the recording... and the attempted murder tonight... she’s not getting out."
He looked up at me.
"You saved me," he whispered.
"We saved each other."
I took a sip of scotch. It burned, but it felt good. It felt like victory.
"Tristan," I said. "There’s one more thing."
"What?"
"The video."
He frowned. "What video? The one from the tunnel?"
"No," I said. "The one from tonight. The one Ida didn't know about."
I pulled out my phone. I opened the app connected to the hidden cameras Silas had installed in the foyer.
"Silas sent me the footage," I said. "Before the police arrived. Look."
I handed him the phone.
On the screen, a high-definition video played.
It showed Ida walking into the foyer. It showed her giving Tristan the gift. It showed her reaction to the audio recording.
And it showed her pulling the gun.
It showed her aiming at me. It showed her pulling the trigger.
And it showed the gun clicking empty.
Tristan watched it. He watched his sister try to kill the woman he loved.
He handed the phone back to me. His hand was shaking.
"Why are you showing me this?" he asked.
"Because," I said. "This is the nail in the coffin. The diary is twenty years old. A good lawyer could argue it’s fake, or that she was a child. But this? This is attempted murder in 4K resolution. With witnesses."
I looked at him.
"We need to release it," I said.
"Release it?"
"To the press," I said. "To the public. We need to control the narrative, Tristan. We need to show the world exactly who she is. Before she tries to spin it. Before she claims insanity."
Tristan ran a hand through his hair. "It’s... it’s so public. It’s my family’s darkest moment."
"It’s your liberation," I said.
I stood up. I walked over to him. I put a hand on his shoulder.
"Do it," I urged. "Burn it down. All the secrets. All the shame. Let the world see the truth."
He looked at me. He looked at the phone in my hand.
He took a deep breath.
"Do it," he said.
I nodded.
I opened my email. I attached the video file.
Subject: The Truth.
Recipients: The New York Times. CNN. The City Gossip.
I hit send.
We sat there in the solarium, watching the progress bar load.
Sending... Sending... Sent.
It was done.
The video was out. The world would see.
And Ida Stevens would never be able to hide again.
The Next Day
The internet broke.
The video went viral in minutes. #IdaStevens was trending worldwide. #JusticeForMinerva was trending right below it.
The comments were a flood of horror and support.
The Johnston stock dipped, then rallied. The board issued a statement supporting Tristan. The Senator issued a statement distancing himself from "the unfortunate events." Lorelei went silent on social media.
And in a holding cell at the precinct, Ida Stevens watched the news on a small TV screen.
She watched herself pull the trigger. She watched herself scream.
She started to laugh.
It was a quiet, broken sound.
"They’re watching me," she whispered. "Everyone is watching me."
She looked at the reflection in the dark screen.
"Finally," she said. "I’m the star."
The Estate
We were in the kitchen. It was Thursday morning.
The sun was shining. The air felt lighter, cleaner.
Tristan was making pancakes. He was actually good at it.
"Blueberry or chocolate chip?" he asked.
"Both," I said. "I earned it."
He smiled. He flipped a pancake.
"So," he said. "The renovation."
"What about it?"
"The east wing is gone," he said. "The library is ash. We have a lot of work to do."
"We do."
"Are you staying?" he asked. He stopped cooking. He looked at me. "I mean... really staying? Or just until the trial?"
I looked at him. I looked at the man who had fought for me. The man who had let me burn down his family’s secrets to save our future.
"I’m the architect," I said. "I don't leave until the job is done."
"And when the job is done?"
I walked over to him. I took the spatula from his hand.
"Then we’ll see," I said. "But right now? I think the foundation is solid."
He grinned. He leaned down and kissed me.
It tasted like pancakes and coffee and second chances.
"Good," he said. "Because I was thinking... for the library..."
"Yes?"
"Maybe we don't rebuild it exactly as it was," he said. "Maybe we make it... brighter. More windows. Less wood."
I smiled.
"I like that idea." I said.