Chapter 26 Iflex my wrists, the broken zip tie hanging loose around my wrist. No one noticed when I snapped them-all eyes on Patricia's confession, her transformation from poised socialite to cold-blooded killer happening right before us. But for all the satisfaction of finally hearing the truth, I'm fucking trapped. Boxed in. The gun in Patricia's hand makes any sudden movement a death sentence-maybe not for me, but for Lilian. The fireplace crackles behind Richard, casting dancing shadows across the room. The heat from it radiates outward, making the already tense atmosphere even more suffocating. Flames lick at the logs, hungry and eager, reminding me of the rage building inside me for eight goddamn years. Waiting. Consuming. Ready to devour everything in its path. Eight years locked away, treated like a fucking animal. Eight years planning my revenge. And now I'm standing here, watching this psychopath wave a gun around, unable to do a goddamn thing about it. My fingers itch to wrap around Patricia's throat, to watch the life drain from her eyes the way she watched my mother drown. But the gun keeps me rooted in place as my body vibrates with impotent fury. The rage builds inside me like a physical pressure, threatening to crack my ribs from the inside out. I'm not powerless. Not anymore. In this cramped common room, with Lilian caught in the crossfire, I might as well be back in that fucking institution, strapped to a table while they pump me full of chemicals. Sweat beads on my forehead, and I clench and unclench my fists at my sides, the broken loop of a zip tie digging into my wrist where it's still strapped, its mate hanging loose, broken-a small pain to focus on, to keep me grounded when everything inside me is screaming to move, to act, to end this shit once and for all. Aries hovers at the edge of my vision, his expression giving nothing away. Always calculating. Always three steps ahead. I catch his eyes flicking between Patricia and the door, between the gun and Lilian, measuring angles and assessing risks. I still don't know if I can trust him, if his little betrayal this morning was part of some master plan or just him being the weak fucking coward he's always been. But right now, I don't give a shit. If he can get Lilian out of this, all is forgiven. She's all that matters now. The Mill House common room feels claustrophobic, the walls closing in with every passing second. The battered sofa, the glass coffee table, the out-of-place, overly expensive lamp in the corner-all of it so ordinary, so fucking mundane for the scene playing out here. Murder confessions. Family secrets. A madwoman with a gun. The jarring contrast between the everyday setting and the life-and-death stakes makes everything feel surreal, like I'm watching it happen to someone else. My gaze sweeps the room, taking in the tableau. Richard looks hollowed out, like a man who's just watched his entire life burn to ash. He's not speaking and barely even breathing. The firelight casts harsh shadows across his face, aging him a decade in minutes. His hands tremble slightly where they rest on his knees, his eyes fixed on some middle distance, unseeing. Learning your wife of over a decade murdered your first wife will do that to a man, I suppose. Pathetic bastard. Patricia stands by the door, gun trained on us, her eyes cold and calculating even now. Her cream silk blouse remains pristine despite everything, with not a hair out of place. The perfect facade is maintained even as her world crumbles around her. There's something almost admirable about her composure, if it wasn't so fucking terrifying. The gun looks strange in her manicured hand, but she holds it with the confidence of someone who knows how to use it. Not a novice. Not hesitant. Another lie in a lifetime of deception. Drew, Lee, and Sebastian hover near the stairs, waiting for an opening that isn't coming. Sebastian's eyes are wide with the same calculation Aries shows, but Drew's expression is shrewd, surprisingly steady for a man who just walked into a hostage situation. Lee keeps glancing at Aries, some unspoken communication passing between them. What the fuck did my brother tell them before this all went down? And Lilian-brave, beautiful Lilian-stares defiantly at the woman who raised her, who lied to her, who cut her open for profit for years. Her eyes burn with a mixture of rage and betrayal so potent it's almost a tangible force in the room. Her cheeks are flushed, whether from the heat of the fireplace or the intensity of her emotions, I can't tell. There's no fear in her stance, no cowering. Just steel and fire. Fucking incredible, even now. The grandfather clock in the corner ticks steadily, each second stretching into eternity. Outside, campus life continues, oblivious to the drama unfolding within these walls. Someone laughs, the sound carrying through an open window, jarringly normal against the deadly silence in this room. The front door opens, and the men who've been backing me walk in like they own the place. Like Patricia doesn't have a gun trained on us. The oldest one, silver-haired and imposing in an expensive suit, steps forward with casual confidence. There's something about him that reminds me of a predator-patient, assured, lethal. The kind of man who doesn't need to raise his voice to command attention. "Hello, Patricia," he says, his voice carrying the weight of old money and older grudges. "Still spinning lies, I see." Patricia's composure cracks, just for a second, before her mask slips back into place. A flash of genuine fear in her eyes is quickly suppressed. "Hector," she says, the name like poison on her tongue. Hector's gaze sweeps over the room, taking in Richard's broken posture, the gun in Patricia's hand, Lilian's defiant stance, and my barely contained rage. His expression gives nothing away, but the tension in his shoulders speaks of carefully controlled fury. His eyes linger on the fireplace for a moment, the flames reflecting in his pupils before he turns his attention back to Patricia. His gaze finally lands on Lilian. Something shifts in his expression-an almost imperceptible softening. Recognition. Familiarity. Something deeper than professional interest or casual concern. "Hello again, Lilian," he says, his voice gentler now. "I don't believe we've been properly introduced. I'm Hector Marlowe. Your father's brother. Your uncle." Lilian goes utterly still, shock written across her face. The color drains from her cheeks, her lips parting in silent surprise. "My...uncle? But my mother said⁠-" "That all your family was dead?" Hector finishes for her. "Yes, I imagine she would say that. It's much easier to control someone when they have nowhere else to turn." He takes another step into the room, ignoring the gun completely. The men with him position themselves near the door, watchful and ready. They're professionals, that much is obvious. Not hired muscle, but trained operatives. The kind of men who could disarm Patricia in seconds if given the opportunity. Yet they wait, taking their cues from Hector, patient as their employer. "You know," Hector continues conversationally, "I always assumed Richard was in on it with you, Patricia. The deaths. The cover-ups. It was quite a cozy little arrangement." Richard flinches, and he seems to shrink further into himself, shoulders hunching as if to ward off the words. "Although now I can see it seems you were the mastermind behind it all," Hector says, his eyes narrowing. "My brother's death. Elizabeth's drowning." My head snaps up at that, the pieces falling into place with sickening clarity. Not just my mother. Not just me. How many fucking lives has this woman destroyed? How far does her web of manipulation extend? "What do you mean, her father's death?" The words tear from my throat, rough with the effort of controlling my rage. Hector's gaze shifts to me, something like respect flashing in his eyes. "David Marlowe. Lilian's father. Patricia made sure he was out of the picture. Freed herself up to join with Richard." The fireplace pops loudly once, twice. The sudden sound makes everyone jump, except Patricia and Hector. Their eyes remain locked in silent combat, decades of hatred compressed into a single, unblinking stare. "You're lying," Patricia hisses, but there's panic edging into her voice now. The gun wavers slightly in her grip before steadying again. "David died in an accident. A car crash." "Did he?" Hector's voice is soft, dangerous. "Just like Elizabeth accidentally drowned? Just like Arson needed to be institutionalized? Just like Lilian happened to develop a heart condition that required medication that kept her compliant?" Each accusation lands like a physical blow, the truth of each impossible to deny. The pattern is too clear, too consistent to be a coincidence. "You killed my father?" Lilian whispers, the words barely audible over the crackling of the fireplace. For the first time since I've known her, I see genuine fear in Lilian's eyes. Not just anger, not just betrayal, but fear-raw and primal. She's looking at her mother like she doesn't know her at all. Then again, why the fuck would she? The woman standing before us isn't the careful, composed Patricia Hayes, philanthropist and devoted mother she plays. This is someone else entirely. Someone who's been hiding in plain sight for decades. Patricia's expression hardens, all pretense of the concerned mother finally dropping away. The transition is chilling to witness-the mask of humanity slipping to reveal something cold and reptilian beneath. "I did what was necessary," she says coldly. The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. There's something inhuman in Patricia's eyes now, something calculating and merciless that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. I've seen that look before-in the eyes of the doctors at the institution who saw me not as a person but as a subject. A problem to be solved. An inconvenience to be eliminated. "Tell me, Patricia," Hector says, taking another step forward, ignoring the weapon entirely. His shoes press into the worn carpet, deliberate and unhurried. "Are you going to shoot me? Add one more body to your count?" The tension in the room is thick enough to choke on. Patricia's eyes dart from Hector to Richard to Lilian, calculating her odds, her escape routes. I can almost see the wheels turning behind her eyes, weighing options, assessing threats. She's backed into a corner, literally and figuratively, but cornered animals are the most dangerous kind. "You know," she says, swinging the gun toward Lilian, "I think I'll start with the person who decided not to listen. The one who brought this all down around us." My muscles coil, ready to spring, but I force myself to remain still. One wrong move and Lilian gets a bullet. The distance between us is too great, the gun too steady in Patricia's hand. I'd never reach her in time. The knowledge burns in my gut, acid and bile rising in my throat. "I wouldn't," Hector says calmly. "That's the only shot you'll get off before someone takes you down." He gestures around the room-at me, at Aries, at Drew and his friends, at his own men by the door, all of us coiled and ready to spring the moment she gives us an opening. The odds are overwhelmingly against her, and Patricia knows it. I see it in the slight widening of her eyes, the barely perceptible tightening of her jaw. She backs herself further into the corner, desperation edging into her movements. The firelight casts her shadow long and distorted against the wall, a monstrous silhouette that better matches the true nature of the woman than her carefully maintained appearance. Without warning, she fires a shot into the ceiling, the sound deafening in the small room. Plaster rains down like snow, dust motes dancing in the air. Everyone skitters back. The acrid smell of gunpowder mingles with the woodsmoke, creating a choking miasma that stings my eyes and burns my lungs. "Fine," she says, lowering the gun back to point in Lilian's direction. Her voice is steadier now, her initial panic giving way to a cold, pragmatic acceptance of her situation. "Then we negotiate. How do I get out of this alive? With my money?" Hector laughs, the sound devoid of any real humor. It echoes off the walls of the common room, hollow and bitter. "There is nothing you can give me that would make me let you walk out of here, Patricia. Nothing." "I have offshore accounts," she says quickly, words tumbling over each other in her haste. "Millions. Information about Hayes Enterprises that could be worth even more to the right people." Her desperation is palpable now, sweat beading on her upper lip despite her otherwise immaculate appearance. The façade is crumbling, revealing the terrified woman beneath. But there's something else there, too-a cunning that makes me wary. Patricia Hayes doesn't beg. Doesn't plead. This is another manipulation, another fucking angle she's playing. "Do you really think I care about your money?" Hector asks, disgust evident in his voice. "What level of insane do you have to be to think you can buy your way out of this? You can just kill someone, and trade justice for cash." "Everyone has a price," Patricia insists, desperation creeping into her voice. Her eyes dart around the room, searching for an ally, but she won't find one here. Not in this room. Even Richard won't look at her, his gaze fixed on the floor, shoulders slumped in defeat or disgust or both. "Not everyone," I say, my voice low and controlled despite the rage boiling inside me. Every instinct screams to lunge at her, to end this now, but I stay rooted in place. Too much at stake. Too many variables. Too many ways this could go wrong. Patricia's eyes find mine, and for a moment I see something like recognition there. A mirror image of my own hatred, my own capacity for violence. We understand each other, Patricia and I. Both of us are willing to do whatever it takes to get what we want. The difference is, what I want is justice. What she wants is survival, at any cost. "I know what you're thinking, and I promise you won't get away with it," she says, her voice dropping to a whisper that somehow carries over the crackling of the fire. "None of you will." "We already have," Hector replies, his confidence unshakable. "It's over, Patricia. The only question now is how it ends." The grandfather clock chimes the hour, the sound startlingly normal amid the surreal tableau. Outside, life continues unaware-students crossing the quad, professors preparing lectures, the ordinary rhythm of a college campus on an ordinary day. In here, time seems suspended, stretched taut like a wire about to snap. Patricia's eyes dart to the window, perhaps calculating if she could make it out before we reached her. There's nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Her carefully constructed empire is crumbling around her, and for the first time in perhaps her entire life, she is truly cornered. The realization settles over her features, hardening them into something terrible and resolute. The gun in her hand steadies, her finger tightening almost imperceptibly on the trigger. "If I'm going down," she says coldly, "I'm not going alone."