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“Theo told me about Laurel,” she says gently. “About the work she did. Family court work. Guardianship advocacy. Helping children navigate systems that don’t make room for grief or fear.” Her voice tightens, just slightly. “He said she was very good at it. That it meant a great deal to her. And to you.”
She gives me a sad smile, and I look over at Theo with my already misty eyes. He just leans in and kisses the top of my head.
“So I decided the money should go there—to the Laurel Emmett Family Advocacy Clinic, the newest part of Bellwood’s legal clinic. Fully funded. Endowed. Permanent. A place built to do exactly what Laurel spent her life doing: standing between vulnerable families and systems that too often failed them.”
Gerry makes a soft sound of agreement, stepping closer to place a hand on her shoulder. She leans into the gesture.
He catches my eye and gives me a small, almost conspiratorial nod.
“So you decided to sell the collection,” I say, because I’m at a loss for words and can’t find the right thank you for something like this.
“I decided,” she says carefully, “that if we are going to live with all the things that happened, the house cannot keep functioning as a shrine to denial. The things you found in the hidden collection room will go to the proper institutions. The holdings will be catalogued off-site. Some items will be sold. Some will be donated. The Mayfair name will fund support for families, scholarships, and research rather than remaining synonymous with sensationalized headlines and public spectacle.”
“That sounds about right,” Gerry says. “Less murder and ancient artifact lore, more students wandering the exhibits.”
Evelyn huffs out a small laugh.
“I…I don’t know how to thank you.” I’m full-on crying now.
She sets her cup down and gives me the most grandmotherly look.
“I did not know,” she says. “About Henry. Not truly. I suspected. Victoria’s behavior changed near the end. The obsession, the way she talked about our family legacy, the way she tiptoed around any direct mention of his death. It was too much to ignore. I just—I could not prove it. I did not know how.”
“You saw an opportunity when we arrived,” Theo acknowledges. “And you didn’t waste it.”
Her gaze holds his. “I knew that if I let you both loose on this place, you would not stop until you found the truth. Whatever it was.”
Evelyn looks at me now. “You gave us something we can live with, and a way to move forward, which is more than I could have asked for. So, perhaps it is I who should be thanking you, Lila.”
Gerry clears his throat and reaches for her hand, lacing their fingers together openly now. “And in return, we promise the cursed antiques will only go to the people who agree to sign hefty waivers.”
The heaviness lifts a fraction, and a quiet laugh passes between us.
Theo’s hand wraps around mine under the table, his thumb drawing a small, steady line against my skin.
“Where is Emily?” I ask.
“Out back,” Evelyn says. “She wanted some air. Baryn is hovering nearby, pretending he is not hovering.”
I meet Evelyn’s gaze, offering a wordless explanation she accepts without comment. We set our cups down and slip back into the main part of the house.
It feels so in-between. Less haunted, not yet ordinary.
We follow the sound of low voices toward the rear terrace.
Emily stands on the flagstone just outside the French doors, arms folded around herself. Her eyes track the movers crossing the lawn. There is a new tension in her face, but also something else. Stillness that does not read as numbness anymore. More like someone holding a heavy weight and refusing to set it down out of responsibility, not punishment.
Baryn stands a few feet away, leaning against one of the stone pillars. At first glance he looks unchanged—hair too perfect, posture loose.
“I think this is fucked,” he says as we approach him.
No greeting. No preamble.
He pushes off the pillar and walks toward us, stopping close enough that I can see the faint exhaustion under his eyes. “All of this. I think we are all standing in the aftermath of a landslide pretending the house did not just cave in.”
I glare up at him, but don’t respond.
His mouth twists. “If you think I am going to risk going to prison for tampering with evidence and obstruction of justice so you two can write some bestselling true crime exposé, think again.”
