Page 91 of The Reckoning
Mother whips a small handgun out of a purse on her hip, stopping his movements. “I think we need to have a more private conversation,” she says smoothly, her composure fully restored.
“Where did you get that?” Richard asks, staring at the gun with disbelief.
“I’ve always had it,” she replies with a small shrug. “A woman in my position needs protection. Now, where were we?”
“You were confessing to murder,” Arson says coldly. “To drowning our mother.”
Mother’s lips curve into a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I wasn’t confessing. I was…hypothesizing. And this conversation is over.”
She levels the gun at Richard. “You’ve disappointed me, Richard. After everything I’ve done for you. For this family.”
“Patricia,” he says, voice low with pain and anger. “Put the gun down. More death isn’t going to solve anything.”
“It solves the immediate problem,” she replies, gaze flicking between all of us. “It gives us time to think, to plan our next move. Don’t act the martyr. We’ve worked together on any number of projects over the years. If I go down, then I’ll conveniently start talking, and you’ll be just as guilty in all of it as I am. Maybe more so, since it was your money that set it all up.”
Arson flexes his hands as he snaps his zip ties, one loop hanging broken off the other, his expression dangerously calm. No one notices.
“There is no next move,” he says. “The sham is over. You already confessed. The only place you’re going is a mental hospital.”
“Confessed?” Mother tilts her head slightly. “I don’t recall confessing to anything. I merely suggested a scenario. Explored a possibility.”
“We all heard you,” I say, fury building inside me. “You admitted to drugging her.”
“Did I?” Her voice is light, almost amused. “How would that sound to an outsider, I wonder? The troubled twin with delusions of persecution, his codependent stepsister with her own mental health issues, both making wild accusations against a respected philanthropist?”
Richard makes a move toward her. “This is madness, Patricia. Please, you can’t possibly think you’ll get away with this.”
“Get away with what?” she asks innocently. “I haven’t done anything wrong. I’ve only tried to protect my family—including my disturbed stepson, who clearly needs to return to proper care.”
I want to interject, to speak up for Arson, but there’s no point. It’s clear that she is past sanity. The calculated look in her eyes terrifies me. She’s already spinning a new narrative, already plotting how to turn this situation to her advantage.
“No one will believe you,” Aries says, moving to stand beside his brother. “Not this time.”
“Won’t they?” Mother smiles, the expression never reaching her eyes. “The Hayes family is one of the most respected in the country. Hayes Enterprises employs thousands. And I’ve spentyears building my reputation as a champion for children with mental health issues.”
She gestures with the gun toward Arson. “Who would they believe? Me, or the young man who spent years in psychiatric care? The young man who apparently escaped, assumed his brother’s identity, and has been living a dangerous delusion?”
A knock on the hall interrupts us. Mother’s eyes narrow, then she calls out in a voice suddenly tremulous with emotion, “Who is there?”
Drew pokes his head down, followed by Lee and Sebastian. They take in the scene—Richard looking shell-shocked, Arson coiled like a snake, Mother standing near the door, me frozen in place—and stop dead in their tracks.
“What the—” Drew starts, but Mother cuts him off.
“Thank goodness you’re here,” she says, her voice transformed, thick with tears and worry. “There’s been a terrible situation. My stepson Arson has been making wild accusations.”
The boys stare at her, then at us, clearly trying to make sense of the tableau.
“What’s going on?” Sebastian asks, his gaze lingering on Arson ready to pounce.
“My stepson Arson”—she gestures toward him with the gun, making the boys flinch—“has been struggling with some serious delusions. He became aggressive, and I had to take precautions to protect my family.”
It’s masterful, the way she shifts the narrative. The way she becomes the concerned mother, the protective wife, the reluctant defender—all in the space of seconds.
“That’s not what happened,” I say, finding my voice at last. “She’s lying. She confessed to murdering their mother. To locking Arson away for years. To?—”
“Lilian, sweetheart,” Mother interrupts, her voice dripping with concern, “you’re confused. The stress has triggered an episode. You know how fragile your condition is.”
Drew’s eyes dart between us, his eyebrows raised, uncertainty etched into his features, but there’s a shrewdness there too. There’s no way he couldn’t have been listening? “Aries?” he asks, looking at his friend for clarification. But I can see the calculation in his eyes there too. He knows damn well what’s happening here.
