The Sting

The back door of the Carriage House was unlocked, just as Sabrina had promised. Iris pushed it open, her heart thumping against her ribs. The interior was dark, but a faint light spilled from the living room, casting long, sharp shadows across the hallway floor.

She stepped inside, wincing as her injured ankle took her weight. Silence. The house felt held breath-still, a stark contrast to the chaos of the fire raging a mile away.

"Sabrina?" she whispered.

No answer.

Iris crept forward, trailing her hand along the wall for balance. The air smelled of old wood and something else—cigar smoke. Expensive, acrid.

Julian's brand.

She reached the doorway of the living room. The lamp on the side table was on, illuminating the heavy velvet drapes, the Persian rug, the wingback armchair facing the empty fireplace.

And sitting in the chair, legs crossed, a glass of amber liquid in his hand, was Julian.

He looked up as she entered. He didn't seem surprised. He didn't seem angry. He looked tired.

"Hello, Iris," he said.

Iris froze. She looked around the room. Where was Sabrina? Where was Elias?

"She's gone," Julian said, answering her unspoken question. "I sent her away. To the city. She needed to clear her head."

"Where is he?" Iris demanded. "Where is Elias?"

Julian took a sip of his drink. "He's safe. For now."

He gestured to the sofa opposite him. "Sit down, Iris. You look terrible."

"I'm not sitting with you."

"Suit yourself." He swirled the liquid in his glass. "Sabrina is a good daughter, Iris. Loyal. But she's weak. She let her emotions get the better of her. She told me everything."

Iris felt the floor drop out from under her. "What?"

"She called me," Julian said. "Ten minutes ago. From the car. She told me you were coming. She told me about the plan."

"No," Iris whispered. "She hates you. She recorded you."

"She was upset," Julian conceded. "But she knows where her bread is buttered. She knows who pays for the gallery. For the Lexus. For the life she enjoys."

He set the glass down on the table with a sharp *click*.

"She made a choice, Iris. Between the truth and her comfort. And she chose comfort. Just like everyone else in this family."

Iris shook her head. "You're lying."

"Am I?" He pulled a phone from his pocket. Sabrina's phone. The one she had used to stream the confession.

He tapped the screen and held it up. It was smashed. The glass spiderwebbed, the display black.

"She gave it to me," he said. "She deleted the video first. It never went to the cloud. It never went anywhere."

Iris stared at the broken phone. The betrayal was a physical pain, sharper than her ankle, deeper than the burns on her hands. Sabrina had played her. She had used Iris to assuage her guilt, then ran back to daddy when the reality of the consequences set in.

"So what now?" Iris asked, her voice hollow. "You kill me? Like you killed Sarah Miller?"

Julian sighed. He stood up, smoothing his jacket.

"Sarah Miller wasn't a murder, Iris. It was an accident. A tragic, unfortunate accident. Just like the fire at Mercer Hall."

He walked toward her. He was holding the gun again. Not aiming it. Just holding it.

"And just like the accident you're about to have."

He raised the gun.

"Sabrina is a good daughter, Iris. She told me everything."