Page 61 of The Reckoning
She hesitates, clearly reluctant to leave me alone with my demons. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.” I don’t look at her, focusing instead on the screen, on the image of my mother standing next to Patricia, both of them unaware of the tragedies waiting just a few years ahead. “Please.”
After a moment, I hear her soft footsteps retreating, followed by the gentle click of the door closing behind her. Only then do I allow myself to sink back into the chair, bury my face in my hands, and feel the full weight of memories I’ve spent years trying to outrun.
The boathouse. The beam. The fall. My mother’s face beneath the water. Richard’s cold calculation as he decided which son to save and which to sacrifice. The Facility, withits white walls and expressionless doctors and medications that turned the world gray.
And through it all, Aries. Always Aries. The twin who got everything while I got nothing. The one who caused our mother’s death and walked away without a scratch while I paid the price for his actions.
The one who, even now, can’t face the truth of what he did.
When this is over, when Lilian is safe and Richard is destroyed, I’ll have my reckoning with my brother. Not for revenge—I’m beyond that now. Instead, I want justice and the truth. For my mother, who deserved so much better than to die saving someone else’s child from her son’s recklessness. For Elizabeth Hayes, who loved both her sons, even the one everyone else deemed disposable.
EIGHTEEN
LILIAN
The warehouse feels hollow, echoing with unspoken words and buried truths. I wander through its concrete corridors, searching for Aries, needing to make sure he’s okay after what just happened. The confrontation with Arson was brutal—necessary, maybe, but brutal all the same. I check the common areas first—the makeshift kitchen, the security room with its wall of monitors, and the cramped living space we’ve been sharing.
No sign of him. It’s only when I pass by a heavy metal door left slightly ajar that I hear it—the soft, rhythmic sound of someone trying to control their breathing.
He sits on a broken chair, back against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest like a child trying to make himself smaller. The position makes him look vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen before—not the confident Hayes heir or the angry captive, but just a man overwhelmed by truths he’s spent years denying.
“Aries?” I keep my voice soft, not wanting to startle him.
His head jerks up, eyes wide and unfocused for a moment before recognition settles in. “Lilian.” He straightens, trying to compose himself, to rebuild the walls I’ve just witnessed crumbling. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you.” I step into the room, fighting back a shiver at how cold and empty it feels. God, how did he survive months in a space just like this without losing his mind? “I was worried.”
“I’m fine.” The lie is so obvious it would be funny if it wasn’t so sad. “Just needed some space to think.”
“Here?” I gesture to the empty, decrepit room, not hiding my disbelief. “In this place?”
He shrugs, the movement stiff and uncomfortable. “Seemed fitting.”
I move closer, sitting on the rickety chair beside him, careful not to crowd him. The last thing he needs right now is to feel trapped.
And careful I don’t topple on my ass as the chair wiggles ominously.
“What happened back there…” I start, not really sure where I’m going with this. “The things Arson said?—”
“Are true.” He cuts me off, voice flat. “Every word.”
Well, shit. I hadn’t expected him to just come out and admit it like that. I’d prepared myself for the usual deflection, the careful reframing, the subtle shifting of blame.
“You remember?” I ask, studying his face.
“Not…consciously. Not until now.” He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in that way that always makes him look younger. “But hearing him tell it, it was like…like watching a movie I’d seen before but forgotten. Like the memories were there all along, just buried.”
“You were a kid, Aries,” I remind him, because it seems important that someone say it. “Fourteen years old.”
“So was he.” His gaze meets mine, raw with self-loathing. “And he didn’t freeze. He didn’t let someone else take the blame for what he did.”
I reach for his hand, half expecting him to pull away. He doesn’t, but his fingers remain limp in mine, neither accepting nor rejecting the comfort.
“I killed her,” he whispers, the words so quiet I have to lean closer to hear them. “My mother. I killed her with my stupidity, my showing off. And then I let them blame Arson for it. Let them lock him away. Let them convince me it was his fault, not mine.”
“You didn’t kill her,” I counter, squeezing his hand. “It was an accident. A horrible, messed-up accident.”
