Chapter 29: Sisterly Hate

The darkness was absolute, save for the single, blinding beam of the flashlight. It pinned Elena and Beatrice against the mantelpiece like specimens in a jar. Vane stood in the doorway, a silhouette cut from the night. The gun in his hand was small, matte black, and terrifyingly steady.

"I expected better from you, Beatrice," Vane said, his voice calm, almost disappointed. "Brawling like a common thief. And Elena... I thought we had an understanding."

"We did," Elena said, her voice shaking but her grip on the sketchbook tight. "Until you burned down a rehab center."

"An unfortunate electrical fault," Vane said, stepping into the room. The beam swept across the broken glass, the cracked plaster, the crowbar on the floor. "Just like the gas leak that's about to happen here."

Elena's stomach dropped. He wasn't just here to stop them. He was here to clean up.

"You can't kill us both," Beatrice said. She stepped forward, trying to summon the arrogance of her birthright. "I'm a Hawthorne. If I disappear, people will ask questions."

"You're a disinherited alcoholic with a history of erratic behavior," Vane corrected. "And Elena is a grieving mother having a breakdown. A tragic murder-suicide fueled by a family dispute over money? The press will eat it up."

He raised the gun.

"Put the book down, Elena."

Elena clutched the sketchbook to her chest. It was the only thing standing between Julian and oblivion. "This proves everything, Silas. The first baby. The swap. The fact that you sold your own son to replace the one you let die."

Vane didn't flinch. "I didn't sell him. I saved him. He was born into poverty. I gave him a kingdom."

"You gave him a cage," Elena spat. "And you killed the real heir to do it."

"The real heir was weak," Vane said, his voice hard. "Constance was weak. This family would have crumbled decades ago without me. I pruned the rot."

"You are the rot," Beatrice said.

Vane turned the light on her. "Goodbye, Beatrice."

He fired.

The sound was deafening in the enclosed space. Beatrice screamed, clutching her shoulder, spinning back against the fireplace.

"No!" Elena lunged forward.

Vane turned the gun on her.

"The book," he said.

Elena hesitated. Beatrice was sliding down the wall, blood blooming on her white coat. The smell of cordite filled the room, sharp and metallic.

If she gave him the book, they were dead. If she didn't, they were dead.

She needed a distraction.

She looked at the portrait of Constance above the mantel. The woman who started it all. The woman who hid gold in the walls.

"Beatrice was right," Elena said, her voice trembling. "About the safe."

Vane frowned. "What?"

"The gold," Elena lied. "Constance moved it. It's not in the wall."

Vane’s eyes flickered to the cracked plaster where Beatrice had swung the crowbar. Just for a second.

It was enough.

Elena threw the sketchbook. Not at him. At the chandelier.

The heavy book hit the crystal with a crash. Glass rained down.

Vane looked up, startled.

Elena grabbed the heavy brass poker from the fireplace stand and swung.

She didn't aim for the gun. She aimed for the flashlight.

Metal connected with metal. The light shattered. The room plunged back into darkness.

"Bitch!" Vane roared. A shot went off, wild, sparking against the stone hearth.

"Beatrice, move!" Elena screamed.

She grabbed Beatrice’s good arm and hauled her toward the French doors. They stumbled out onto the terrace, into the cold night air.

"My shoulder," Beatrice gasped, stumbling. "I can't..."

"Yes, you can," Elena hissed. "Run."

They ran across the lawn, toward the treeline. Behind them, the beam of a second flashlight cut through the dark. Vane had a backup.

"I can't see," Beatrice moaned.

"Just follow me." Elena pulled her into the woods. The branches whipped their faces. The ground was uneven, treacherous with roots.

They reached the old stone wall that marked the edge of the property. Beatrice collapsed against it, sliding down into the dead leaves.

"I can't," she wheezed. "He shot me."

Elena touched Beatrice’s shoulder. Her hand came away wet and warm. It was a through-and-through, high up. Painful, but not immediately fatal.

"We have to keep going," Elena said. "He'll track us."

"Go," Beatrice whispered. "Leave me. I'll slow you down."

"I'm not leaving you."

"Why?" Beatrice looked up, her face a pale blur in the dark. "I hated you."

"Because you're the only one who knows," Elena said. "You're the witness."

She pulled Beatrice up. "Come on. The boathouse isn't far."

"The boathouse?" Beatrice asked, confused. "Why there?"

"Because Mrs. Gable said he keeps the tapes there," Elena said. "And because there's a boat. We can cross the lake."

They stumbled through the woods, the sound of Vane’s pursuit fading but never disappearing. He was old, but he was hunting. And he knew these woods.

They reached the boathouse. It was a dark, looming shape against the water. Elena tried the door. Locked.

She picked up a rock and smashed the window. She reached in and unlocked it.

They fell inside. The air smelled of gasoline and rot.

"The tapes," Elena whispered. She scanned the room with her phone light.

There was a metal cabinet in the corner. She ripped it open.

Rows of VHS tapes. *1986. 1987. 1988.*

She grabbed the one marked *October 1986*.

"Elena," Beatrice whispered.

Elena turned.

Vane was standing in the doorway. He wasn't out of breath. He raised the gun.

"End of the line," he said.

Elena looked at Beatrice. She looked at the tape in her hand. She looked at the gasoline can sitting by the boat engine.

She didn't hesitate.

She kicked the can over. Fuel glugged out onto the wooden floor.

"You won't shoot," Elena said, holding up her phone light. "Not in here. Not with the fumes."

Vane lowered the gun slightly. He smiled.

"You think I'm afraid of fire?" he asked. "Fire is how we clean up mistakes."

He pulled a lighter from his pocket. He flicked it. The flame danced.

"Burn it all," he said.

And he dropped the lighter.