“You mourned her?” My voice is hoarse. Raw. “You mourned the woman you let die so you could cover your filthy little secret?”
He doesn’t answer. Just shakes his head, fingers clawing into his scalp like he can dig the truth out and make it disappear.
“I was scared.”
“You were a coward.”
He sobs again, but I’ve gone numb. There’s nothing left inside me but ash and acid.
“You don’t get to cry,” I whisper. “Not after what you’ve done. Not after what you drove her to. You broke two girls. One is dead. The other’s a murderer. And you? You get to sit here and cry?”
He collapses forward, arms resting on his knees, chest heaving.
I take one final look at him. The monster. The man I called Father and I want to vomit. I want to burn this place to the ground and the ghosts that live here.
I can’t breathe.
The walls feel like they’re closing in, dragging me back into memories I’ve spent years trying to forget. I step away, moving toward the tall windows that line the far end of the study. I need space. Air. Proof that there’s still a world outside this house. That not everything is rotting behind its polished veneer.
Through the glass, the estate grounds stretch out beneath the gray afternoon sky—manicured hedges, marble statues, the gravel path I used to race down on my bike. It looks the same. But nothing is.
“I had her arrested,” I say, my voice low, steady.
Behind me, I hear him inhale sharply.
“Corrine’s in custody. She’s talking.” I pause, not turning around. “I’ve turned everything over to the police. They’re on their way.”
Another breath. This one staggered. Wet with grief or fear—or both.
“I just wanted to see your face,” I add. “Look into your eyes while you tried to deny it. While you tried to pretend you were still a man.”
I let the silence sit between us like a corpse.
Then I walk away.
Every step through the halls of Harrow Estate feels like shedding a skin I’ve worn too long. The air feels stagnant andstale, as if even the house knows something’s changed. That the rot has finally been exposed.
By the time I reach the front door, my heart has slowed. My lungs fill easier. The air tastes different. Cleaner.
Outside, the wind lifts the edge of my coat, and in the distance, I hear the sirens. Wailing through the stillness, growing louder by the second.
With one foot in the car, one hand on the hood and the other holding the door, I watch. Wind blows the leaves, and a bird flies past as if nothing is happening here.
As if this isn’t a house of horror.
Just as I’m about to slide into my car, a crack slices into the setting evening. An unmistakable flash shoots out of the study window and is gone just as quickly as it came. The boom of a gunshot echos into nothing.
The leather seat complains as I sit. The shutting of the car door is a far louder click than I’ve ever heard. Then nothing. Silence as I start the engine and drive away.
As I leave Harrow Estate in the rearview, I don’t check the mirror because there’s nothing left to see.
Not for me.
Not anymore.
Isit low in the armchair, the highball glass sweating against my palm. Whiskey untouched. The ice has long since melted, but I haven’t moved.
I’m watching the clock.
