Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Shae
The next afternoon, I’m curled up on the couch with my phone, scrolling social media like my thumb is trying to sandpaper my thoughts smooth. It doesn’t work. Iris keeps cycling back—her voice, her confidence, the way she said nearby like a promise.
I think about all the nights Sophie and I spent hiding under my bed or huddled in the closet while our dad raged downstairs. My parents didn’t protect me from monsters. They taught me how to become one. And where was Iris then? I know nothing about her life. She could still be lying.
For a full minute, I consider packing up and leaving—another town, another identity, somewhere warmer. Palm Beach. Hilton Head. Anywhere but here. But Iris feels like the kind of problem that follows. No running. That’s not my style anyway.
Three loud knocks rip me out of my spiral.
“Shae,” he calls, voice thick, careless with my name like it belongs to him. “I know you’re in there.”
I groan. Of course he does.
I set my phone down carefully. If this were a documentary, this is where they’d zoom in on my hands and drop in ominous music. But my hands are steady. My pulse is boring. Disappointing, really.
I open the door.
Declan leans into the frame like gravity failed him halfway up the stairs. His hair is damp—rain or sweat or both—and his jacket hangs open, shirt wrinkled, eyes too bright. Drunk, yes. But not sloppy. Focused.
That’s worse.
“What do you want?”
He laughs—a short bark. “Straight to business. Guess prison really did harden you.”
I step aside. Not an invitation. A test.
He hesitates just long enough to notice, then steps in anyway. He smells like whiskey. It twists something old in my stomach. The door clicks shut behind him, and the sound lands louder than it should.
Blake isn’t here. Declan knows it. There’s only one car in the driveway.
“Relax,” he says, lifting his hands. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
People who say that always think it counts as something.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
“Not into surprises, huh?” His gaze roams—counters, corners, the single framed photo of Sophie and me as kids. The only proof I ever had sweetness once. “Nice place. Netflix money?”
“Get to the point.”
His smile thins. “Wanted to talk more about the letter.”
I lean back against the counter, arms crossed. “What letter?”
He chuckles. “Cute. You always were cute when you played dumb.”
My jaw tightens before I can stop it.
“Iris,” he says. “Hell of a name. Think it’s real?”
Something coils in my gut—hot, tight, unpleasant.
“I hate that you read it,” I say.
“Every word.”
“That should be illegal.”
He shrugs. “So is half of what you did.”
There’s that little flicker behind his eyes—the moment he thinks he’s brave.
“Why are you really here, Declan?”
He steps closer. Not threatening. Intimate. Like we’re sharing a secret instead of standing in a standoff.
“I saved you,” he says. “And now someone’s trying to rewrite the story.”
“No one saved me,” I say. “I saved myself.”
His smile cracks. “You don’t believe that.”
I tilt my head. “You sound emotional.”
That lands.
He exhales hard and drags a hand through his hair. “You think I don’t see what this is? A half-sister with dirt on dear old dad? A revenge tour waiting to happen? This letter doesn’t just hurt you, Shae. It blows up the whole narrative.”
“You’re worried about my narrative?”
“I’m worried about mine.” His eyes finally pin me. “You think Netflix keeps the hero edit if this goes public?”
Ah.
“There it is,” I murmur.
He bristles. “I could’ve sent it straight to them.”
“Did you?”
A beat.
“No.”
“Then why are you here?”
He hesitates, and that’s when I know. He didn’t come to destroy me.
He came to be chosen.
“I wanted you to hear it from me,” he says. “Before it gets… messy.”
“How noble.”
“I mean it.” His voice drops. “I’m trying to protect you.”
I laugh—sharp, bright, and genuinely amused. “Oh my god. You really believe that.”
His face darkens. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make me the villain.”
I push off the counter and step closer—close enough to see the pulse in his neck. “You showed up at my home drunk and smug, with copies of my mail. If you’re not the villain, you’re auditioning.”
He swallows. “I’ve already shared the letter.”
The air changes.
“With who?” I ask, too quick.
“People.”
My stomach doesn’t drop. My mind moves instead—mapping, sorting, calculating. “Names.”
He smiles, and this one is ugly. “A podcaster. Maybe a producer. Hard to keep track.”
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” He leans in. “Maybe Iris will have her own show soon. Runs in the family, right? You two tearing each other apart for clicks.”
He thinks that gives him power.
“You’re the one behind the comments,” I say, watching him. “The hate threads. The stalking.”
He freezes.
“Oh,” I add lightly. “That look answers that.”
“You don’t get to call me a stalker,” he snaps. “Not after everything you—”
“Careful,” I say. “You’re starting to sound obsessed.”
His jaw works. “I cared.”
“That’s worse.”
Silence stretches—heavy, electric.
“I should leave,” he says, not moving.
“Yes,” I agree.
He still doesn’t.
I walk past him into the living room on purpose, turning my back like I trust him. Like I don’t know exactly what he is.
“Shae,” he says, softer. “We could still fix this.”
I turn. “Fix what?”
“This.” He gestures between us—the past, the power, the little lie he still feeds himself where he mattered. “You and me.”
“There is no you and me.”
“There was.”
I step closer again and drop my voice. “No. There was you thinking you mattered to me.”
His face flushes. “I risked everything.”
“For attention.”
“For you.”
“For the story you wanted to tell yourself.” I smile. “That you were the good guy.”
He laughs, bitter. “You’re cold.”
“I’m honest.”
A beat.
“You should read the letter again,” he says. “Your sister sounds a lot like you.”
That lands harder than he knows.
“You don’t know anything about my family,” I say.
“I know evil doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
I stare at him until he shifts.
“Get out,” I say.
He straightens, trying to reclaim what he already lost. “You think this ends with me?”
“I think you’re drunk.”
“I think you’re scared.”
We stand inches apart, both lying.
Finally, he steps back. “This isn’t over.”
“No,” I agree. “It never is.”
Declan turns for the door.
My fingers find the small canister in my pocket—not because I plan to use it, but because I like options. Options make people polite.
“Declan,” I call, soft. “Wait. I need your help with something.”
He pauses, jaw tight, like he’s deciding whether to be a decent man or a resentful one. Decent always loses.
“What?” he asks.
I tilt my head, let my eyes go tired. “The bell tower.”
His brow creases. “What about it?”
“It’s been ringing at night,” I say. “Not the full chime—just… one note. There’s a rusted hinge on the door that needs tightening, I think that will keep the wind out and stop the bell from ringing but I don’t have the tools to do it.
It’s keeping me up at night. If you could just take a quick look? ”
He looks past me, toward the dark window, toward the silhouette that anchors the property. Wind sighs through the grounds like a warning. Then—faintly—the bell answers, a thin accidental ring. Perfect timing. Thank you, Jesus.
“You’re lying,” he says, but he’s already walking. Men love to feel useful. Even when they hate you.
We go out the front door and he stops at his truck, grabbing a screwdriver and hammer before moving onto the path that cuts through the gardens. Saints watch from the shadows. A fountain coughs green water into a stone bowl. The air smells like dust and old incense and roses that refuse to die.
“You picked a church,” he mutters. “Of course you did.”
“It’s a convent,” I correct, sweet as a hymn. “There’s a difference.”
He stops at the base of the tower. The door is narrow. The stairs spiral up into darkness.
“You ruin everything you touch,” he says, voice low. “You ruined my life.”
I step close enough that he can smell my perfume and hate it. “You ruined your life,” I whisper. “You just needed a woman to blame so you could keep calling yourself a good man.”
His face flashes—anger, shame, hunger. He wanted to be my hero. He wanted to be my only person. He wanted the story where he mattered.
We climb. The metal steps groan. The wind threads through the slats and worries the tower like fingers on a ribcage.
At the top, the bell sways on a chain from a rafter, an old iron door hangs half off its hinges, rusted, bowed, clinging to habit more than hardware. Beyond it: nothing but brush, stone, emptiness.
I position myself on the safe side of the frame.
“You know what you really hated?” I say, calm. “That I never needed you. Not even when you thought I did. You were…useless.”
“Shae—fuck, I put my life on the line for you. I risked my job—they put me on leave after you left because they found out about that delivery to the outside—”
I smile, thinking how well everything came together.
“You didn’t have to help.”
“I—I—I thought we, I thought you—”
“You assumed things.”
“You let me assume things! You said—”
“I didn’t say anything. I just didn’t correct your assumptions. You risked your job? That’s on you.”
“You fucking used me Shae—you made me a pawn—”
“You allowed yourself to be one.” I smirk, crossing my arms. “I guess that makes you a simp.” I tilt my head. “A foolish, desperate little simp.”
His fists clench around the hammer and screwdriver he’s holding. His jaw tightens, working back and forth as his eyes flare with rage. “You—”
I shrug, doing my best to push him to the edge of anger.
“What?” I laugh. “You didn’t really think there was a future for us, did you?”
His nostrils flare, his body tensing with something close to fury.
“Aw, God. You did!” I cover my mouth, stifling a laugh. “You poor thing.”
The hand holding the hammer twitches. And for the first time I realize I might be in trouble. He holds the hammer and screwdriver in one hand. Easy weapons if he wanted to bludgeon me because I pushed him too far. A crime of passion is how the headlines would spin it.
Fear climbs in my throat as his gaze turns cold. I can almost see the plan materialize in his eyes. His love for me slips away, replaced with a hatred so deep I can feel it vibrating off of him.
In the next beat, he lunges for me—empty hand out, wild, trying to grab my arm, my throat, my narrative—his other in a state of recoil, preparing to land the final hammer blow to my skull.
I step aside just before he reaches me.
His momentum carries him into the iron door. The hinge gives with a sound like a cough. The door swings—and Declan goes with it.
For a second there’s only wind. Then a distant impact I don’t look for. The tower swallows the rest.
I scream. Not because I’m afraid. Because I know what people expect a victim to sound like.
Then I’m already running down the stairs, stumbling just enough to be believable, phone in my hand, voice cracking on command as I dial.
“Nine-one-one,” I sob. “He—he came after me. He fell. Please. Please.” I tell them to come to St. Mary’s on Placerita Canyon Road and then I hang up.
I step over his lifeless body on the garden path, overgrown rose bushes tearing at his skin like the convent itself is taking its tithe—thorn by thorn, quietly claiming what he came here to steal.
Beads of crimson decorate his exposed flesh.
He looks peaceful in death, somehow… beatific.
Holy even. Like he’s just met God face-to-face.
I smile, make a quick sign of the cross on my chest, and walk back to the house on patient steps.
I move to the bottle of wine on the counter, pouring the last of it into my stemless glass, and then stand at the kitchen window as I wait for first responders to arrive.
My reflection is dark and calm. The bell tower behind me rises like a black finger against the sky, and the wind slips through the old slats until the bell gives one thin, accidental ring—like a wink only I can hear.
That should terrify me.
Instead, I smile.
The kitchen lights hum softly as I hear the slow crescendo of ambulance sirens in the distance. Outside, a car passes. Somewhere, a phone buzzes. Somewhere else, a story is already changing hands.
I practice my face in the window glass—shocked, shaken, grateful to be alive.
I file Declan in the handled folder of my mind.
Tomorrow is a new day.
And hope springs eternal.