Chapter 30 Closure Pending
CLOSURE PENDING
LILA
Two weeks later, the house looks so much different.
Movers in dark uniforms weave through the foyer, arms full of crates stamped with bold black letters: ARCHIVE. MUSEUM HOLDINGS. FRAGILE. Tape tears. Wood creaks. Dust drifts in the lines of afternoon sun.
“This way, please,” Evelyn calls. “Those are going to the truck marked Whitmore.”
She wears slacks and a soft blouse. Her hair is pulled back. There is a clipboard in her hand, a pencil tucked behind her ear. She’s in curator mode, and I love it.
If anything good came of Theo and me finding Henry’s stash of antiquities, it was that it gave Evelyn a fun project to occupy her for the next few months.
You know, aside from the being worth over sixteen million dollars part.
Gerry stands beside her, hands on his hips, watching two movers wrestle a full pallet down the front steps.
“If any of those boxes start whispering in Latin, I’m billing hazard pay,” he tells one of them. “I did not sign up for cursed antiques. My union rep would have something to say.”
“You do not have a union rep,” Evelyn says, without looking up. “And you’re also not being paid.”
“Not with that attitude,” he mutters, then catches sight of me and Theo and brightens. “There they are. The famous troublemakers.”
Theo’s hand lands on the small of my back, guiding me into the foyer.
The smell of coffee and something cinnamon drifts from the morning room.
Brunch, Evelyn called it in the text she sent me a few days ago.
As if inviting us back for mimosas and scones while the estate is being dismantled around us was a normal follow-up to our last visit.
“Thank you for coming,” Evelyn says. She taps the clipboard gently against her leg. “I know this is strange timing.”
“You did promise food though,” Theo grins.
That earns the smallest smile from her. “That, I did.”
We drift into the morning room, where the table has been cleared just enough to function. Fruit and pastries sit beside estate folders and packing manifests, the remains of an ambitious brunch plan abandoned mid-effort.
I take a mug of coffee mostly so I have something to hold.
Evelyn pours her own cup and takes the seat across from me.
“I thought I would feel differently,” she says. “Seeing it all go.”
She gestures vaguely at the folders, the manifests, the careful order she’s imposed on decades of accumulation.
She talks about logistics. About responsibility.
About how objects like these carry sad stories whether anyone wants to admit they do or not.
About how Henry believed in preservation for preservation’s sake, while she’s come to believe that usefulness matters more.
“I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about legacy,” she continues, smoothing a hand over the table as if it might argue with her. “Not something you engrave onto plaques or hide in vaults, but something that actually shows up where it’s needed.”
She glances at me then, measuring. I get the sense this conversation has been rehearsed, not for effect, but because it mattered enough to get right.
“And I kept coming back to the same question,” she says. “If you have the means to help, and you don’t, what exactly are you doing with your life?”
She pauses long enough that the silence is starting to feel uncomfortable.
“Lila.”
I straighten without meaning to.
“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.”
My mouth quirks before I can stop it. “Don’t forget abuse of a corpse.”
“No one is writing an exposé,” Theo cuts in before Baryn can fire back. “There is a profound lack of interest on either of our parts in turning any of this into entertainment.”
Baryn snorts. “You expect me to believe that?”
“Yes,” Theo says. “Because what happened here is not a story to exploit. It is a record to be handled carefully. Appropriate reports have been filed. Certain facts will never see daylight. That is the balance we find. You are not a criminal, Baryn. You are a man who made a series of questionable choices in an effort to protect someone you love.”
Baryn fixes us with a look that hovers between doubt and disbelief.
Theo continues, more sincere now. “And you’re already serving a sentence. One you don’t get to walk away from.” He nods toward Emily, who’s still a few feet away, wrapped in her own world, unaware of the conversation happening around her. “You’ll keep showing up. You’ll keep carrying it with her.”
Baryn’s jaw ticks. “Being there for Em is not a punishment.”
“I didn’t say it was a punishment. It’s choosing to take responsibility, every day, in ways no courtroom could require.”
For a second, no one speaks.
Then I feel the need to add, “Besides, you’re the one who makes money off of other people’s murdery misfortunes, B.R. Slate.”
His mouth falls open. He had to have known we know by now. Unless, in the middle of all this, his investigative instincts have dulled.
A thought occurs to me. If Baryn was willing, we could work together to finally put Peter where he belongs. On the right side of the truth.
Emily laughs this time, interrupting my thoughts, clearly not as unaware as I’d thought.
I look over to find her watching us, her mouth curved just slightly. When our gazes meet, the smile falters, and before I’ve fully decided anything, my feet are already moving. I cross the distance between us.
For a heartbeat we just stand there, facing each other in the cool afternoon air, movers shouting in the background, boxes clattering, the house giving up its ghosts one crate at a time.
Emily steps forward at the same time I do, and we collide in a hug that isn’t gentle or careful or planned. Her arms lock around my shoulders; mine catch her at the waist.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “For not walking away.”
My throat burns. “You are infuriating,” I choke out. “And reckless. And very bad at covert poisoning.”
She lets out a wet little laugh against my shoulder.
“But you are also very good at loving those around you with your whole heart,” I add. “And having a strong sense of justice, not unlike myself. Which counts for something. So we figure it out from there.”
Over her shoulder, I see Baryn watching us, face stripped of its usual performance. He looks like a man who understands that the person in my arms is the fulcrum on which everything that matters to both of us hinges.
Theo stands a few steps back, hands in his pockets, his attention never leaving me. When my eyes meet his, he gives me the faintest smile.
I hold his gaze for a beat longer than necessary, grounding myself there. Whatever comes next—whatever this all turns into—I know exactly where I’m standing. And who I’m standing with.