Chapter 26 Old Habits
The rain had stopped It pressed against the windows of the Master Suite like a living thing, heavy and suffocating.
I lay under the duvet, my body rigid. Beside me, Tristan was finally asleep. His breathing was slow and even, a stark contrast to the storm raging inside my own head. His arm was draped over my waist, a heavy, warm anchor that both comforted and terrified me.
I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be in this bed, in this house, with this man.
But the alternative was worse.
I closed my eyes, trying to force myself to relax.
A sound from downstairs. Loud. Like glass breaking.
My eyes snapped open.
Tristan jerked awake instantly. His body went from relaxed to coiled tension in a nanosecond.
"What was that?" he whispered, his voice rough with sleep.
"Downstairs," I breathed. "Glass."
He sat up, throwing off the duvet. He grabbed the wrench from the floor beside the bed.
"Stay here," he ordered.
"No." I sat up too, reaching for my boot knife. "I’m not staying in the dark while you play hero."
"Mina—"
"Move, Tristan."
We moved to the door. He unlocked it silently.
The hallway was pitch black. The silence of the house felt wrong. It wasn't empty. It felt... occupied.
We crept down the stairs. The wood creaked under our feet, sounding like gunshots in the quiet.
We reached the foyer.
The front door was still barricaded. The windows were intact.
"Where did it come from?" Tristan whispered.
"The back," I said. "The kitchen?"
We moved toward the kitchen. The door was still blocked by the chair.
Then, a cold draft hit my legs.
The library.
The boarded-up library.
We turned toward the east wing. The smell of wet ash and charcoal grew stronger.
The plywood covering the library door was gone. Someone had pried it off.
Tristan raised the wrench. I gripped my knife.
We stepped into the library.
It was a ruin. The fire had gutted it. The ceiling was gone, open to the night sky. Moonlight filtered in, illuminating the blackened beams and piles of debris.
And standing in the center of the ruin... was a figure.
It wasn't Ida.
It was a man. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Wearing a dark raincoat.
He was digging.
He was using a shovel to dig through the ash where my desk used to be.
"Hey!" Tristan shouted, shining his flashlight on the man.
The figure spun around. The light hit his face.
It was Russo.
My foreman.
He froze, the shovel in his hand. He looked terrified.
"Mr. Johnston?" he stammered. "Boss?"
"Russo?" I lowered my knife, confused. "What are you doing here? You left hours ago."
"I... I came back," Russo said, lowering the shovel. "I forgot my tools. Expensive tools. I didn't want them to get wet."
"In the middle of a storm?" Tristan asked, stepping forward. "In the middle of the night?"
"I was worried," Russo said, shifting his weight. "And... I saw the gate was open. I thought maybe something happened."
"So you decided to dig in the ashes?" I asked, my suspicion rising.
Russo looked down at the pile of debris. "I thought maybe... maybe I could find something. To help. Evidence."
"Evidence of what?" Tristan demanded.
"The fire. How it started."
It was a lie. A bad one. Russo was a contractor, not an arson investigator. And he looked guilty. Sweaty.
"What were you really looking for, Russo?" I asked, stepping closer. "Because if you don't tell me, I’m going to assume you’re working for her."
Russo paled. "No! I swear, Boss. I hate that woman. She tried to stiff me on a job two years ago."
"Then why are you digging?"
Russo sighed. He reached into his pocket.
He pulled out a small, metallic object.
It was a locket. Gold. Charred, but intact.
"I saw this," he said. "Before the fire. On the desk. I thought... I thought maybe it was important to you. I didn't want it to be lost."
I stared at the locket.
It wasn't mine.
I took it from him. The metal was cold. I pried it open.
Inside was a picture.
A picture of Tristan as a baby.
And a lock of hair.
It was Ida’s.
She had left it. Before she set the fire. A calling card. A piece of her shrine, planted in the wreckage.
"She was here," I whispered. "She was in the room."
Tristan looked at the locket. He looked sick.
"Get out, Russo," Tristan said. "Go home. Don't come back until daylight."
"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."
Russo scrambled out of the ruin, disappearing into the dark.
We were alone in the burnt library.
Tristan took the locket from my hand. He stared at the picture of himself as a baby.
"She’s haunting us," he said. "Even when she’s not here."
He threw the locket into the darkness. It clattered against the stone wall.
"Come on," he said. "Let’s go back upstairs."
\---
Back in the Master Suite, the adrenaline crashed.
I sat on the edge of the mattress, shivering. The cold draft from the library had chilled me to the bone.
Tristan locked the door again. He dragged the dresser back.
He turned to me.
"You’re shaking," he said.
"I’m fine."
"You’re not fine. You’re terrified."
He walked over to the bed. He sat down next to me.
"Lie down," he said.
I lay down. He lay down beside me. He pulled the duvet up over us.
He reached for me.
This time, I didn't flinch.
I rolled toward him. I buried my face in his chest.
"She’s never going to stop," I whispered. "Is she?"
"She will," Tristan said. His arms tightened around me. "We’ll stop her. Tomorrow."
"How?"
"We find her," he said. "We use the key. We go to Queens."
I looked up at him. "You know about the key?"
He smiled faintly. "I saw you put it under your pillow. You’re not as sneaky as you think."
"I was going to go alone."
"I know. That’s why I didn't say anything. I was going to follow you."
I rested my head on his shoulder.
"Tristan?"
"Yeah?"
"Why did you keep the wrench?"
"Because," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I remembered something. From when we were married."
"What?"
"You used to sleep with a knife under your side of the mattress. When I was away on business."
I froze. "How did you know that?"
"I found it. Once. When I came home early. You were asleep. I saw the handle sticking out."
"You never said anything."
"I didn't know what to say," he admitted. "I didn't know why my wife felt so unsafe in her own home that she needed a weapon to sleep. I thought... I thought maybe you were scared of intruders."
He stroked my hair.
"But you were scared of us," he said. "Of the family. Of Ida."
"I was scared of everything," I whispered.
"I know. And I let you live like that. I let you sleep with a knife instead of holding you."
He kissed the top of my head.
"I’m holding you now," he said. "And I have the wrench. You don't need the knife tonight."
I felt tears prick my eyes.
Old habits.
I had spent five years building walls, sharpening knives, preparing for war.
But lying here, in the dark, with his arms around me and his heartbeat steady against my ear...
I realized something.
I didn't want to fight anymore.
I just wanted to rest.
"Okay," I whispered.
I let go of the tension. I let my body melt into his.
And for the first time in forever, I slept without dreaming of fire.