Page 93 of The Reckoning
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.
