Chapter 55: Walking the Halls

The lock clicked. Not because I had a key, but because the door wasn't fully latched. A sliver of darkness gaped between the heavy oak panels, breathing cold air into the hallway.

I pushed the door open.

The main hall of the Sterling Estate was a cavern of shadows. The power was still out, the only light coming from the moon filtering through the high clerestory windows. The grand staircase loomed ahead, a spinal cord connecting the head of the house to its body.

"Sarah," Edith said from behind me, her voice low. "Don't go in there."

I ignored her. I stepped onto the marble floor, my sneakers squeaking in the silence. The air smelled of lemon polish and something else. Something metallic.

"It's empty," I said, my voice echoing. "Your guards are gone."

"They're not gone," Edith said. "They're waiting."

"For what?"

"For me to give the order," she said.

I turned around. Edith was standing in the doorway, the moonlight catching the silver of her hair. She looked small, fragile. A trick of the light.

"You don't have an order to give," I said. "Lucia uploaded the recording. The police are ten minutes out. It's over."

"It's never over," Edith said. "Not as long as I'm standing."

She walked past me, toward the stairs. She didn't look at the broken photos on the floor, the wreckage of her curated life. She looked straight ahead, toward the master suite.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"To finish it," she said.

I followed her up the stairs. The house felt heavy, oppressive, like the walls were closing in. We passed the portraits of ancestors who weren't really ancestors—Archibald, Martha, the stern faces of a lineage built on theft.

Edith stopped at the end of the hall. The door to the master bedroom was closed.

"This is where it started," she said, her hand resting on the knob. "This is where I became a mother."

"You never became a mother," I said. "You became a kidnapper."

Edith opened the door.

The room was pristine. The bed was made, the curtains drawn. But in the center of the room, sitting on a velvet ottoman, was a small, wooden box.

It wasn't the black metal box from the nursery. It was older. Rosewood, inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

"What is that?" I asked.

Edith walked to the box. She opened it.

Inside was a single sheet of paper.

"The deed," she said. "To the estate. To the trust. To everything."

She picked it up.

"It's signed," she said. "By Archibald. Leaving everything to me."

"It's a forgery," I said. "Thorne told me. Archibald left everything to his biological grandchildren."

"Thorne is a liar," Edith said. "But he was a useful liar. He forged the will you found in the safe. The one that cut me out."

I stared at her. "What?"

"Archibald loved me," Edith said, her voice trembling. "He knew I wasn't his blood, but he loved me. He wanted me to have it. But Thorne... Thorne wanted a cut. So he created a second will. A will that required a DNA test. A will that forced me to produce an heir."

She looked at the paper in her hand.

"This is the real will," she said. "The one that says I own it all. The one that says I don't need a child to be a Sterling."

"Then why steal us?" I asked. "Why go through all of this if you already had the money?"

Edith looked at me. Her eyes were wet.

"Because I didn't want the money," she whispered. "I wanted the family."

She dropped the paper. It floated to the floor, landing on the Persian rug.

"I wanted to be a mother," she said. "And when I couldn't... when my body failed me... I thought I could fix it. I thought I could build a family from the pieces of my broken life."

She reached out, touching my cheek. Her hand was cold.

"I loved you, Sarah. In my own way."

"You loved owning me," I said, pulling away.

"Is there a difference?" she asked.

Suddenly, a noise came from the hallway. A heavy, dragging sound.

We both turned.

Standing in the doorway was Mark.

He was covered in soot, his clothes torn, his face a mask of blood and ash. He was holding the poker from the lake house.

"Mark," Edith breathed.

"You left me to burn," Mark said. His voice was a rasp, a sound of pure pain.

"I had to," Edith said. "You were a liability."

Mark stepped into the room. He raised the poker.

"No," I said, stepping between them. "Mark, don't. The police are coming. Let them handle it."

"The police won't kill her," Mark said. "They'll put her in a cell. They'll let her write a book. They'll let her win."

"She's already lost," I said. "Look at her."

Mark looked at Edith. She was backed against the vanity, clutching the rosewood box to her chest. She looked old. Defeated.

"She doesn't look lost," Mark said. "She looks like she's planning her next move."

He lunged.

I tried to grab him, but he was too strong, fueled by adrenaline and hate. He swung the poker.

Edith didn't scream. She didn't flinch.

She pulled a lever on the wall.

A section of the paneling slid open.

A hidden door.

"Goodbye, children," she said.

She stepped into the darkness.

"No!" Mark yelled, swinging the poker at the closing panel. It hit the wood with a dull thud, splintering the varnish.

But the door was already shut. Sealed.

I ran to the panel. I pounded on it.

"Edith!" I screamed.

From the other side, I heard a laugh. Faint. Echoing.

"I told you, Sarah," her voice drifted through the wall. "I found a new room."

I pressed my ear to the wood. I could hear footsteps retreating. Going down.

"Where does it go?" Mark asked, dropping the poker.

"The tunnels," I said. "The ones Ben found. They connect the whole estate."

I looked at Mark.

"She's going back to the beginning," I said. "To the Hoard."