“Convenient.” But Fraser’s smiling slightly, like he expected this. “And the gentleman on the ground?”
“Cal Reznick. He drew on my husband. Bad decision.”
“I’ll say.” Fraser gestures to the uniforms. “Secure the scene. Get that man medical attention—” He points at Matthew, “—and take Mrs. Davenport into custody.”
“What?” Mother’s voice rises to a shriek. “I haven’t done anything! I’m the victim here—my daughter just tried to kill?—”
“Your daughter just stopped you from fleeing the country with a co-conspirator.” Wesley steps forward, settling the file box on the hood of a police cruiser. “Catherine Davenport, you’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder, accessory to murder, fraud, and about fifteen other charges I’ll let the DA enumerate.”
“This is insane. I want my lawyer?—”
“You’ll get one. At the station. After processing.” Fraser nods to the uniforms, and they move to either side of Mother. “Catherine Davenport, you have the right to remain silent?—”
Mother’s gaze finds mine across the loading dock. For a second, she looks old. Defeated. The mask she’s worn for thirty years finally cracking beyond repair.
“You don’t understand what it takes to survive,” she whispers. “The choices women like us have to make. The men we have to placate. The power we have to seize because they’ll never give it willingly. You’re too young. Too naive. You think love and righteousness will protect you, but they won’t. They’ll destroy you like they destroyed your father.”
I step closer, close enough to smell her perfume—Chanel No. 5, the scent of my childhood nightmares.
“You were right, Mother.” My hand finds the lighter in my pocket, pulling it free. The gold catches the glow of a streetlight, Dad’s presence solid in my palm. “Weakness is a luxury the rich can’t afford. I stopped affording it the day you killed him.”
Her face crumbles completely. Not the elegant tears of a socialite, but raw, ugly grief. Regret mixing with rage.
“I loved him once,” she chokes out. “Before everything got so complicated. I did love him.”
“Not enough. Not enough to stay faithful. Not enough to let him live. Not even enough to protect your daughter when your choices came back to haunt you.” I flip the lighter open. The flame catches, small and defiant against the night. “But I loved him enough. And that’s why you’re going to prison instead of six feet under.”
The flame reflects in Sergei’s grey eyes as he moves to my side. His hand finds my waist, warm and grounding through red silk still sticky with blood.
“It’s over,” he says quietly. “We won.”
“Not yet.” I watch the officers lead Mother toward the cruiser, her perfect hair finally coming undone, pearls catching light one last time. “Wesley?”
“Already done.” He pats the file box. “Everything’s with the DA. Financial records proving the conspiracy, audio recordings of both your mother and Matthew admitting to the murder, witness testimony placing them at the scene. It’s ironclad, Izzy. They’re going away for a long time.”
“And Matthew?” I glance at my uncle, now being loaded onto a stretcher by paramedics. “He survives?”
“Shoulder wound. He’ll live to stand trial.” Wesley’s smile is sharp. “Which is exactly what you wanted. Public conviction. Public humiliation. Everyone knowing what he did.”
“And if he still manages to slip through the cracks,” Sergei whispers, “we’ll find a way to end him. Permanently.”
“Perfect.” I close the lighter, the flame dying, and slip it back into my pocket. Dad’s fire contained but not extinguished. “Then let’s go home.”
Detective Fraser stops us at the entrance. “I’ll need statements. From all of you. Tomorrow morning, downtown.”
“We’ll be there.” Sergei’s arm tightens around me. “With our lawyer.”
“Figured as much.” Fraser glances at the chaos we’ve created. “For what it’s worth? Your father was a good man, Mrs. Orlov. He deserved better than what he got. I’m glad you made sure his killers paid.”
“Me, too, Detective. Me, too.”
We walk back through The Plaza’s service corridors, emerging into the ballroom. The gala’s destroyed—overturned tables, shattered glass, abandoned champagne flutes. Police swarm, taking statements from shell-shocked guests. Cameras flash. News crews are already setting up outside.
Tomorrow’s headlines will be spectacular.
Tonight, I focus on putting one foot in front of the other. On Sergei’s solid presence beside me. On the fact that we’re alive, and Mother’s in handcuffs, and Matthew’s bleeding out in an ambulance.
We survived.
