Chapter 22 Dress Save
Tristan’s hand was clamped around mine, dragging me down the stone steps toward the waiting line of black SUVs. He was moving fast, his stride long and angry, pulling me away from the fire he couldn't see but could feel radiating off his phone screen.
"Tristan, slow down," I gasped, stumbling slightly in my heels. "You’re hurting me."
He stopped instantly. He spun around, his face etched with a terrifying mix of rage and panic.
"Hurting you?" He looked at his hand on my wrist, then dropped it as if he’d been burned. "I’m sorry. I just... we need to get back. Now."
"Why?" I asked, though I knew. I had seen the photo. The library was burning. "What did Ida do?"
"She sent a message," he said through gritted teeth. "A fire. In the library. And the guest wing."
My stomach dropped.
The journals.
The safe in the guest room wasn't fireproof. It was a standard hotel-grade box I had installed temporarily. If the fire was hot enough... if she used accelerant...
The evidence of the murder. The evidence of the poison. Gone.
"The safe," I whispered.
"I know," Tristan said. "That’s why we’re going. Russo said the fire department is there, but..."
He trailed off, looking at my dress. The silver fabric shimmered under the streetlights, but the tear at the shoulder was a reminder of how fragile everything was.
"Get in the car," he said.
He opened the door of the first SUV in the line.
"Wait!"
Lorelei came running down the steps. She was holding her white tulle skirt up, her face streaked with mascara. She looked like a runaway bride who had been dragged through a hedge.
"Tristan!" she cried. "Where are you going? The gala isn't over! We haven't done the waltz!"
Tristan looked at her. His expression was blank. Cold.
"The house is on fire, Lorelei," he said.
Lorelei stopped. She blinked. "What?"
"Ida set the house on fire."
"Oh my god," she whispered. Her hand flew to her mouth. She looked genuinely horrified. "Is... is anyone hurt?"
"Not yet," Tristan said. "But if you don't get out of my way, someone might be."
He got into the car.
I moved to follow him.
Lorelei grabbed my arm.
"Minerva," she hissed.
I turned. Her grip was tight, her nails digging into my skin.
"You did this," she spat. "You came back, and now everything is burning. Are you happy? Is this the renovation you wanted?"
I looked at her hand on my arm. Then I looked at her face.
"I didn't start the fire, Lorelei," I said quietly. "I just exposed the rot. And sometimes, rot is flammable."
I pulled my arm free.
"Go home," I said. "Before you get burned too."
I got into the car. Tristan slammed the door.
"Go," he ordered the driver.
The car peeled away from the curb, sirens wailing in the distance, not for us, but for the house on the hill.
The drive was a blur of city lights and silence.
Tristan stared out the window, his jaw working. I sat beside him, clutching my purse, my mind racing.
If the journals were gone...
Then it was just my word against hers. A "crazy ex-wife" against the beloved sister.
No. I still had the photos of the shrine. Tristan had seen them.
But murder? Proving murder without the confession? That was impossible.
We turned onto the road leading to the estate.
Smoke was rising above the trees. Thick, black smoke that blotted out the moon.
The gate was open. Fire trucks were jammed into the driveway, their red lights flashing against the gray stone of the house.
The library wing was glowing orange.
Flames were licking out of the windows, my windows. The glass had shattered. The heat was palpable even from the car.
We stopped. Tristan jumped out before the car fully halted.
"Russo!" he shouted.
Russo came running over. He was covered in soot, coughing.
"Mr. Johnston! We got everyone out. The crew is safe."
"The fire," Tristan demanded. "Where did it start?"
"Library," Russo choked out. "And the guest wing. Simultaneous ignition. It was an accelerant, Boss. Someone poured gas."
"Did you get into the guest room?" I asked, grabbing Russo’s arm. "The safe?"
Russo shook his head. "Couldn't get near it. The hallway was an inferno."
My heart sank.
Gone.
I looked at the house. The east wing was being devoured.
"She burned it," I whispered. "She burned it all."
Tristan stood next to me. He was staring at the flames, his face illuminated by the firelight. He looked like a statue carved from grief.
"She didn't just burn the house," he said softly. "She burned the bridge."
He turned to the head firefighter. "Let it burn."
"Sir?" the firefighter asked, confused. "We can save the structure—"
"Let. It. Burn," Tristan repeated. "I don't want to save it. I want it gone."
"Tristan, no," I said. "The rest of the house... your mother’s things..."
"My mother is dead," he said coldly. "And her killer is out there. This house isn't a home, Mina. It’s a crime scene. Let it burn."
But then, I saw something.
Or someone.
Standing near the edge of the woods, just beyond the reach of the firelight.
A figure. Watching.
She was wearing a raincoat. A hood pulled up.
Ida.
She had come back to watch her work.
Rage, pure and white-hot, exploded in my chest. It was hotter than the fire.
I didn't think. I didn't plan.
I started running.
"Mina!" Tristan shouted.
I ignored him. I ran toward the woods, my heels sinking into the wet grass, the silver dress flashing like a beacon.
The figure saw me coming. She turned and ran into the trees.
I followed.
The woods were dark, wet, and tangled. Branches whipped my face. My dress snagged on thorns, tearing again, but I didn't care.
"Ida!" I screamed. "Come back here! Coward!"
I heard her crashing through the underbrush ahead of me. She was fast. But I was fueled by hate.
I burst into a small clearing.
She was there.
She had stopped. She was leaning against a tree, panting. She turned to face me.
She pulled down her hood.
Ida.
She was smiling.
"Hello, sister-in-law," she said. Her voice was breathless, excited. "Did you like the housewarming gift?"
I stopped, chest heaving. We were alone in the dark, the fire glowing orange through the trees behind me.
"You burned the journals," I said.
Her smile widened. "Of course I did. Did you really think I’d let you keep my diary? That’s private."
"You confessed," I stepped closer. "You wrote it down. You killed Eleanor. You killed my baby."
"I pruned the family tree," she corrected. "It needed trimming. Dead weight slows us down."
"Tristan knows," I lied. "He read them."
She laughed. "No, he didn't. If he had read them, he would be here right now, strangling me. But he’s not. It’s just you. You and your pretty silver dress."
She reached into her pocket.
She pulled out a lighter. A silver Zippo.
"You look like a disco ball," she said. "Very flammable."
She flicked the lighter. A small flame danced in the darkness.
"Stay back," I warned.
"Or what?" She took a step toward me. "You’ll hit me with a T-square? You’re an architect, Minerva. You build things. I destroy them. We are natural enemies."
She lunged.
She threw the lighter at me.
It hit my chest. It bounced off the metallic fabric.
It landed in the dry leaves at my feet.
The leaves caught instantly. A ring of fire flared up around me.
Ida laughed. "Burn, witch! Burn like the rest of it!"
I stomped on the fire. My heavy combat boot crushed the flames.
"I’m fireproof, Ida," I snarled.
I charged her.
She wasn't expecting it. She shrieked as I tackled her.
We hit the wet ground hard. Mud and leaves and rage.
I was on top of her. I pinned her arms down. I looked into her eyes. They were wide, frantic, the eyes of a cornered rat.
"You killed my child," I hissed, my hands finding her throat. "You took everything from me."
"He... loves... me," she choked out, clawing at my arms.
"He hates you!" I screamed. "He knows what you are! He let the house burn because he wants to erase you!"
Her eyes widened. The truth hit her.
"No," she wheezed.
"Yes. You lost, Ida. You lost him."
I tightened my grip.
It would be so easy. Just a little more pressure. Just a few minutes. I could end it. I could finish what she started.
"Mina! No!"
Strong arms grabbed me from behind. They hauled me off her.
Tristan.
He pulled me back, holding me against his chest. I struggled, screaming, trying to get back to her.
"Let me go! She confessed! She killed them!"
"I know!" Tristan shouted in my ear. "I know! But you are not a murderer, Mina! Don't let her turn you into one!"
He held me tight, restraining me.
Ida scrambled up. She was covered in mud, coughing, clutching her throat.
She looked at Tristan.
"Tristan," she rasped. "Help me. She’s crazy. She attacked me."
Tristan looked at his sister.
The firelight from the house filtered through the trees, casting long shadows across his face. He looked at the woman who had raised him. The woman who had poisoned his mother. The woman who had killed his unborn child.
"Run," he said.
Ida blinked. "What?"
"Run," Tristan repeated. His voice was dead. "Because if the police don't get you... I will."
Ida stared at him. She saw the truth in his eyes. The bond was severed. The obsession had failed.
She let out a sob. A broken, ugly sound.
She turned and ran. She disappeared into the darkness of the woods.
Tristan didn't chase her.
He turned me around in his arms. He looked at my face. He looked at the mud on my dress, the tear at my shoulder, the wildness in my eyes.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
"No," I whispered. "I almost killed her."
"I know." He brushed the hair from my face. His hand was trembling. "But you didn't. You won."
I looked toward the burning house.
"The journals are gone," I said. "The proof is gone."
"I don't need proof," Tristan said. "I heard you."
"You heard me?"
"I heard you screaming at her. About the baby."
He looked at me, his eyes filling with tears.
"Is it true?" he asked. "Did we... did we have a baby?"
I nodded. The tears finally spilled over, hot and fast. "Yes. In 2019. She poisoned me. She made me lose it."
Tristan closed his eyes. A tear tracked through the soot on his cheek.
He pulled me into him. He held me so tight I couldn't breathe, but this time, it wasn't fear. It was grief. Shared, crushing grief.
"I’m sorry," he sobbed into my hair. "I’m so, so sorry."
We stood there in the woods, while his legacy burned behind us.
The house was gone. The evidence was gone.
But the truth was out.
And now, there was nothing left to hide behind.
"Let’s go," Tristan said eventually, pulling back. "Let’s go to the penthouse. It’s safe."
"What about the fire?"
"Let it burn," he said again.