Chapter 27 Leak
I woke up in the Master Suite, alone. Tristan had kept his word; he had left before dawn, retreating to the guest room or the office or somewhere that wasn't sharing a bed with his ex-wife. The imprint of his body was still visible on the mattress beside me, a hollow in the sheets that looked like a question mark.
I reached under my pillow. The key was still there. Cool metal against my palm.
Queens.
I needed to get to Queens.
But as I sat up, my phone buzzed on the floor. It buzzed again. And again. A swarm of notifications.
I picked it up.
Fifty missed calls. A hundred texts.
And a Google Alert.
BREAKING NEWS: SCANDAL AT THE JOHNSTON ESTATE. ARCHITECT MINERVA HAYES ACCUSED OF SLEEPING WITH CONTRACTORS.
My stomach dropped.
I clicked the link.
It was a tabloid site. The City Gossip. Known for its viciousness and its accuracy.
The headline was splashed across the screen in bold red letters:
RENOVATION OR ROMP? EX-WIFE MINERVA HAYES TURNS JOHNSTON ESTATE INTO A BROTHEL.
Beneath the headline was a photo.
It was grainy, taken with a long lens from the woods. It showed me standing in the library, before the fire. I was laughing. Russo was standing next to me, his hand on my shoulder. It looked intimate. It looked... wrong.
And the article.
"Sources close to the family report that Ms. Hayes, the disgraced ex-wife of billionaire Tristan Johnston, has turned the historic estate into her personal playground. Insiders claim she is sleeping with multiple members of the construction crew, including foreman Marco Russo. 'She treats the house like a frat party,' says one source. 'It’s disgusting.'"
Source close to the family.
Lorelei.
Or Agatha.
Or Ida.
I scrolled down. There were more photos. Me talking to Kenji. Me sharing a sandwich with one of the painters. Innocuous moments twisted into evidence of debauchery.
And then, the kicker.
A quote from an "anonymous" source:
"Tristan is heartbroken. He brought her back to work, and she repaid him by turning his home into a circus. He’s too much of a gentleman to fire her, but everyone knows she’s out of control."
I threw the phone. It hit the wall with a satisfying sound.
"Cowards," I hissed.
They couldn't get to me with fire. They couldn't get to me with poison. So now they were going for the one thing I had rebuilt from the ashes: my reputation.
I stood up. I didn't get dressed. I put on a silk robe and marched downstairs.
The house was silent. The crew hadn't arrived yet. Or maybe they had been fired. Maybe Tristan had seen the article and believed it.
I walked into the kitchen.
Tristan was there.
He was sitting at the island, staring at a tablet. A mug of coffee sat untouched in front of him.
He looked up when I entered.
His face was unreadable.
"Did you see it?" I asked.
"Yes."
"It’s a lie, Tristan. Russo put his hand on my shoulder because I almost tripped over a saw. Kenji was showing me a schematic."
"I know."
"Do you?" I walked closer. "Because the last time someone accused me of cheating, you divorced me."
He flinched. "That was different."
"Was it? It’s the same playbook, Tristan. Photos out of context. Anonymous sources. It’s Ida. Or Lorelei. They’re trying to discredit me so you’ll fire me."
"I’m not going to fire you."
He stood up. He walked around the island.
"I know it’s a lie," he said. "Because I know you. And I know Russo. He’s terrified of you."
"Good."
"But the board..." He sighed, rubbing his temples. "The board is calling. The investors are calling. They’re saying it’s bad for the brand. They want me to issue a statement distancing the company from you."
"And will you?"
He looked at me. His eyes were dark, serious.
"No," he said. "I’m going to issue a statement suing The City Gossip for libel."
I let out a breath. "Okay. Good."
"But Mina..." He hesitated. "The crew. They’re outside. They saw the article. They’re... uncomfortable."
"Uncomfortable?" I laughed bitterly. "They’re grown men, Tristan. They can handle a little gossip."
"It’s not just gossip. The article names them. It names their wives. Their families are being harassed."
My heart sank.
Russo. Kenji. Marco.
They had families. Kids. Wives who were waking up to headlines calling their husbands cheaters.
"I need to talk to them," I said.
"They’re in the driveway."
I turned and walked to the front door. I didn't care that I was wearing a robe. I didn't care that my hair was a mess.
I opened the door.
My crew was there. Twenty men. They were standing by their trucks, looking at their phones, talking in low voices. When they saw me, they went silent.
Russo stepped forward. He looked tired. Angry.
"Boss," he said. "We got a problem."
"I saw the article, Russo," I said, walking down the steps. "It’s garbage. You know it. I know it."
"My wife knows it," Russo said. "But her bridge club doesn't. My kid’s teacher doesn't. They’re calling my house, asking if it’s true."
"I’m sorry," I said. "I never wanted to drag you into this."
"We know," Kenji said from behind him. "But... we can't work like this. The paparazzi are at the gate. They’re taking pictures of our license plates."
"We have to walk, Boss," Russo said. He looked down, unable to meet my eyes. "I can't put my family through this. Not for a paycheck."
I looked at them. My army. My loyalists.
Ida had won. She hadn't fired them. She had shamed them into leaving.
"I understand," I said quietly. "Pack up. I’ll make sure you’re paid for the full contract."
Russo nodded. "Thanks, Boss. Sorry."
They started loading their trucks.
I stood there, watching them dismantle the site. The silence of the house returned, heavier than before.
Tristan walked out onto the porch. He stood beside me.
"They’re leaving?"
"Yes."
"We can get another crew."
"No," I said. "Any crew we hire will be targeted. Ida won't stop. She’ll destroy anyone who helps me."
I turned to him.
"I have to go to Queens," I said.
"What?"
"The key," I reminded him. "The storage unit. I have to go. Today."
"Mina, the press is at the gate. If you leave, they’ll follow you."
"Let them follow," I said. "Let them see where I go. Maybe they’ll get a picture of what’s really in Ida’s closet."
"I’m coming with you."
"No," I said. "You stay here. You hold the fort. If Ida thinks the house is empty, she might come back to finish the job."
"And if she’s at the storage unit?"
"Then I’ll use the knife," I said grimly.
I walked back into the house to get dressed.
I put on black jeans, a black hoodie, and my combat boots. I tied my hair back. I looked like a burglar.
I went to the garage. I didn't take my Range Rover. It was too conspicuous.
I took the old pickup truck the groundskeepers used. It was rusted, beat up, and anonymous.
I drove to the service gate at the back of the estate, the one the paparazzi didn't know about. I punched in the code.
The gate opened.
I drove out onto the back road.
I was alone.
The drive to Queens took an hour. I kept checking my rearview mirror. No tails. No black sedans.
I pulled up to U-Store-It. It was a depressing concrete block of a building, surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with razor wire.
I parked. I walked to the office.
The clerk was a teenager with headphones around his neck. He didn't even look up.
"I need to access unit 404," I said.
"Key?"
I showed him the silver key.
"Code?"
I froze.
The receipt hadn't had a code.
"I... I forgot it," I lied.
The kid sighed. "Name on the unit?"
"Ida Stevens."
He typed into his computer.
"Nope. Unit 404 is registered to... 'Eleanor Johnston'."
My breath hitched.
Eleanor. Tristan’s mother. The woman she murdered.
Ida was using her dead victim’s name to store her secrets. It was sick. It was perfect.
"Right," I said. "Eleanor. That’s... my aunt. She’s sick. She sent me."
The kid shrugged. "If you have the key, you just need the gate code. It’s usually the birthday."
Eleanor’s birthday.
Tristan had told me once. August 15th.
"0815?" I guessed.
"Try it."
I walked to the keypad by the elevator. I typed 0815.
The door opened.
I stepped into the elevator. It smelled of dust and mothballs.
Fourth floor.
The hallway was long, lined with orange metal doors. The fluorescent lights buzzed.
I found 404.
I put the key in the lock. It turned smoothly.
I lifted the door. It rattled up into the ceiling.
The unit was small. Maybe five by five.
And it was full.
Boxes. Stacks of them. Labeled in Ida’s handwriting.
1999.
2005.
2015.
2019.
Years. Trophies.
I opened the box labeled 2019.
Inside were clothes. My clothes. The ones she had "donated" after the divorce.
And something else.
A vial. Small. Glass. Empty, but with a residue at the bottom.
Labeled: Mina’s Tea.
I stared at it.
Proof. Physical proof.
She hadn't burned everything. She couldn't bear to part with her victories. She had kept the weapon.
I reached for my phone to take a picture.
"I knew you’d find it eventually."
The voice came from the hallway.
I spun around.
Ida was standing there.
She wasn't wearing a raincoat. She was wearing a tailored suit. She held a gun.
A small, silver pistol. Pointed at my chest.
"Hello, Minerva," she said. She smiled. "Did you like the article? I wrote it myself."
I stood very still. The vial was in my hand.
"You’re sloppy, Ida," I said. "You kept the poison."
"I keep everything," she said. "Memories are precious."
She stepped into the unit. She closed the door behind her.
We were trapped.
"Give me the vial," she said.
"No."
"I’ll shoot you."
"Go ahead," I said. "Shoot me. In a storage unit in Queens. With your name on the rental agreement? Or wait... Eleanor’s name? How poetic."
Her eye twitched.
"Tristan knows," I said. "He knows everything. He knows about the poison. He knows about the baby."
"He doesn't believe you," she spat. "He loves me."
"He pities you. He thinks you’re sick."
"I am not sick!" she screamed. "I am devoted! I did what had to be done! I saved him from you! You were going to trap him with a brat! You were going to ruin his life!"
"I was going to give him a family!" I shouted back. "Something you never could!"
She raised the gun. Her hand was shaking.
"Give me the vial."
I looked at the gun. Then I looked at the box next to her. 1999.
"What’s in that one, Ida?" I asked. "Eleanor’s tea? Did you keep that too?"
She glanced at the box.
It was a split second. A distraction.
I threw the vial.
Not at her. At the lightbulb above her head.
The bulb shattered. Sparks showered down. The unit plunged into darkness.
Ida screamed. The gun went off.
The bullet hit the metal wall next to my head.
I lunged.
I tackled her again. Just like in the woods.
But this time, we were in a metal box.
We hit the floor. The gun skittered away.
I punched her. Hard. In the face.
She clawed at me. She bit my arm.
We rolled.
I found the gun. My hand closed around the cold metal.
I pulled away. I scrambled back, aiming the gun at her silhouette in the dim light from the hallway.
"Stop!" I screamed.
Ida froze. She was on her knees, panting. Blood was running from her nose.
She looked at the gun. Then at me.
She laughed.
"You won't shoot," she said. "You’re weak. You’re a builder, Minerva. Not a killer."
"I’m learning," I said.
I cocked the gun.
"Get out," I said. "Get out of here. And don't ever come back."
Ida stood up slowly. She wiped the blood from her lip.
"This isn't over," she whispered.
"It is for you."
She backed out of the unit. She turned and ran down the hallway.
I listened to her footsteps fade.
I lowered the gun. My hands were shaking so hard I almost dropped it.
I looked around the unit.
The vial was shattered. The poison was gone.
But the boxes were still there.
1999.
I opened it.
Inside was a diary. Eleanor’s diary.
I opened it to the last entry.
January 10th, 1999.
Ida is acting strange. She watches me. She brings me tea that tastes bitter. I think... I think she hates me.
I closed the book.
I had it.
Not the poison. But the victim’s testimony.
I grabbed the diary. I grabbed the box labeled 2019.
I ran.
I ran to the truck. I threw the boxes in the back.
I drove.
The leak hadn't destroyed me. It had led me to the source.