Chapter 18 PI Report 1
I woke up on the mattress in the center of the gutted room, staring at the ceiling joists. The smell of fresh paint was overwhelming, warring with the lingering scent of sawdust and the metallic taste of fear that coated my tongue.
I touched my throat. It wasn't swollen anymore, but it felt tender, a phantom hand still gripping my windpipe.
She tried to kill me.
The thought wasn't new. It was a rhythm, a drumbeat that had paced my sleep all night. But in the harsh light of Friday morning, it felt heavier. It wasn't just an attempt; it was a promise.
I sat up. The house was quiet. Too quiet. The construction crew hadn't arrived yet. The silence felt heavy.
I slid out of bed, shivering in the cool air. I was wearing one of Tristan’s t-shirts, I hadn't packed pajamas when we fled the hospital and it hung off my frame, smelling of cedar and him. It was a comfort I resented.
I walked to the door and opened it.
Tristan was sitting in the hallway.
He was in a chair he must have dragged up from the solar. He was fully dressed in yesterday’s clothes, rumpled slacks, a button-down shirt unbuttoned at the collar. His head was tipped back against the wall, eyes closed, his arms crossed over his chest. A baseball bat leaned against his leg.
He hadn't slept in the guest room. He had slept guard duty outside my door.
"You look like a bouncer at a club no one wants to get into," I whispered.
His eyes snapped open. They were bloodshot, rimmed with the red fatigue of a man running on adrenaline and caffeine. He blinked, focusing on me, then let out a long exhale.
"Morning," he rasped. He sat up, stretching his neck with a grimace. "How’s the throat?"
"Functional." I leaned against the doorframe. "You didn't have to sleep in the hall, Tristan. The new security team has the perimeter locked down."
"The security team missed the peanut oil," he said darkly. "I trust no one."
He stood up, grabbing the bat as if it were an extension of his arm. He looked at me, his gaze dropping to the oversized t-shirt, then back up to my face. A flicker of heat passed through his eyes, quickly extinguished by the weight of our reality.
"Coffee?" he asked. "I made it myself. In a sealed pot. With bottled water."
"You’re learning," I said.
"I’m adapting." He checked his watch. "Get dressed. The PI is here."
My stomach dropped. "Mr. Vane? I thought he wasn't due until Monday."
"He called me at 4:00 AM," Tristan said. His face tightened, the skin stretching over his cheekbones. "He said it couldn't wait. He said he found something in Ida’s basement."
We met in the library.
The room was exactly as I had left it. The glass desk was clean, the blueprints rolled up. It felt like an interrogation room.
Arthur Vane sat on the other side of the desk. He was a small man, unassuming, with the kind of face you forgot five seconds after looking at it. He wore a beige trench coat that looked like it belonged in a noir film, but his eyes were sharp, intelligent, and currently, deeply disturbed.
Tristan stood by the window, arms crossed, staring out at the rain-slicked garden. I sat in my chair, the leather cool against my back.
"Mr. Vane," I said. "You’re early."
"I prefer to be thorough," Vane said. His voice was dry, like paper rustling. He placed a thick manila envelope on the glass desk. It made a heavy sound.
"You asked for a full audit on Ida Stevens," Vane began, looking at Tristan. "Financials, communications, property assets. You specifically asked if she had been stealing from the estate."
"Did she?" Tristan asked without turning around.
"Yes," Vane said simply. "But that’s the least of your problems."
He opened the envelope. He slid a stack of financial documents across the desk.
"She’s been siphoning money from the Johnston Trust for a decade," Vane explained. "Small amounts at first. Then larger. She set up shell companies—'Mina Holdings,' 'Hayes Consulting.' She used your wife’s name to make the transfers look suspicious, in case anyone ever looked. But the money didn't go to Minerva. It went to a private account in Switzerland. And from there... it went to memorabilia collectors."
Tristan turned. "Memorabilia? What does she collect? Stamps?"
Vane didn't smile. "No, sir. She collects you."
He reached into the envelope again. This time, he pulled out photographs. Glossy, high-resolution prints.
"I obtained these last night," Vane said. "My team bypassed the security system at Ms. Stevens' townhouse in the city. We searched the premises. The main floors were normal. But the basement..."
He slid the first photo across the desk.
I looked down.
My breath hitched in my throat.
It was a photo of a room. The walls were painted black. There were no windows. But the walls weren't empty. They were covered in photographs.
Photographs of Tristan.
Tristan sleeping. Tristan eating. Tristan walking to his car. Tristan at his graduation. Tristan at our wedding with my face cut out. Tristan in the shower the angle matching the peephole in the tunnel.
It was a mosaic of obsession. A wallpaper made of his life, stolen moment by moment.
"Jesus," Tristan whispered. He had walked over to the desk and was staring at the photo. His face was gray.
"There’s more," Vane said.
He slid another photo.
This one showed a glass display case in the center of the room. Inside, lit by small spotlights, were objects. A toothbrush. A razor. A dirty t-shirt sealed in a Ziploc bag. A lock of hair tied with a red ribbon. A used coffee cup.
"She goes through your trash," Vane said clinically. "She keeps things you’ve touched. Things that contain your DNA."
Tristan reeled back, gripping the edge of the desk. He looked like he was going to be sick.
"She’s my sister," he choked out. "She... she raised me."
"She’s obsessed with you, Mr. Johnston," Vane corrected. "This isn't familial affection. This is idolatry. It’s a shrine. And in the center..."
He slid the final photo.
It showed an altar. A literal altar, draped in red velvet. On top of it sat a large, framed portrait of Tristan. And in front of the portrait were candles. Dozens of them. Some burned down to the nub, some fresh.
And next to the candles... were dolls.
Voodoo dolls. Or effigies.
One looked like Lorelei. It had a needle stuck in its throat.
One looked like me. It was burned. Charred black, with the head ripped off.
I stared at the burnt doll. A cold shiver ran down my spine, vibrating in my teeth.
Get out before she kills you.
"She’s sick," Tristan whispered. "She’s... she’s mentally ill. It’s a coping mechanism. She lost everyone. Mom. Dad. She clung to me."
"This isn't clinging, Tristan," I said, my voice steady despite the horror churning in my gut. "This is ownership. She doesn't love you. She consumes you."
Tristan looked at me, his eyes wide and pleading. He was begging me to tell him it wasn't that bad. He wanted me to rationalize it, to say it was just grief gone wrong.
But I couldn't. I had the journals in the safe upstairs. I knew exactly where this road ended.
"Is there anything else?" Tristan asked Vane, his voice trembling. "Is that it? Just... crazy pictures?"
Vane hesitated. He looked at me, then back at Tristan.
"We found a computer in the basement," Vane said. "It was encrypted, but my guy cracked it. We found a folder labeled 'The Removal'."
"The Removal?" Tristan repeated.
"It’s a list," Vane said. "A timeline."
He pulled out a sheet of paper. A printout.
"1999: The Mother. Status: Complete."
"2015: The First Fiancée (Sarah). Status: Removed."
"2019: The Wife (Minerva). Status: Removed."
"2024: The Senator’s Daughter. Status: Pending."
The room went silent. The air conditioner hummed, sounding like a buzz saw in the quiet.
Tristan stared at the paper.
"The Mother," he whispered. "1999. That’s... that’s when Mom died."
"She died of autoimmune failure," Tristan said, his voice rising, defensive. "It was a tragedy. Ida was devastated. She nursed her until the end."
"Or she caused it," I said softly.
Tristan spun on me. "Don't."
"Tristan, look at the list," I urged, standing up. "It says 'Status: Complete.' You don't 'complete' a tragedy. You complete a mission."
"She was seventeen!" Tristan shouted. "She was a child! She couldn't have killed our mother!"
"She was old enough to know what poison was," I said. "Just like she knew about the peanuts yesterday."
Tristan flinched. The fight went out of him. He slumped against the window frame, sliding down until he was crouching on the floor, his head in his hands.
"I can't believe this," he moaned. "I can't... she’s the only family I have."
Vane looked at me. He had the eyes of a man who had seen everything and was surprised by nothing.
"Mr. Johnston," Vane said gently. "I recommend we turn this over to the police immediately. The evidence regarding the fraud is enough for an arrest. The shrine... the list... that will get a psychiatric hold."
"No," Tristan said. He looked up. His face was ravaged. "Not yet."
"Tristan," I argued. "She is dangerous. She has a hit list. Lorelei is 'Pending.' Do you want to wait until she puts a needle in Lorelei’s throat for real?"
"I need to talk to her," Tristan said. He stood up, shaky but determined. "I need to hear her say it. I need to look her in the eye and know."
"You can't trust anything she says!" I yelled. "She is a pathological liar! She has been lying to you your entire life!"
"I know!" Tristan roared back. "But I need to know why! I need to know if she... if she really killed Mom. I can't just hand her to the cops based on a list on a computer. I need the truth."
He looked at Vane. "Give me the files. All of them."
Vane handed him the envelope. "Be careful, Mr. Johnston. Obsession like this... it doesn't let go. If you confront her, you become the threat. And she will destroy the threat to keep the object."
"I’m already destroyed," Tristan muttered.
He took the envelope. He walked to the door.
"Tristan!" I called out.
He stopped. He didn't turn around.
"Don't go to her house," I said. "Do not go into that basement. If you go there, you won't come out."
He hesitated. "I’m not going to her house. I’m going to call her. I’m going to bring her here. To the gate."