53. Chapter 53
Chapter fifty-three
Lina
The shock doesn’t hit all at once. It comes in waves— knocking the air out of my chest long after Alex finished telling me.
David Allister. Dead.
I don’t say it out loud, but I know it in my bones. Something happened to him.
He left the bakery confused—but not dismissive. I saw it in his eyes. The way his posture shifted. The way his questions slowed with realization. A light had turned on in his head, one he couldn’t turn off again.
He knew. He knew we had both been lied to.
And I think—no, I’m almost certain—that he went home intending to confront Elinor. Not with rage. Not theatrics. But with that quiet, deliberate seriousness he always carried when something mattered.
I think about David—not as Cole’s father, not as part of that family—but as a man who realized too late that the woman he trusted most had been lying to him. Manipulating him. Undermining him. And when he figured it out. It cost him his life.
This was about Money. Elimination.
And I can’t shake the feeling that David died because he was ready to stand on the right side of the truth.
As I avert my gaze from Alex, grief and fury tangling together. There’s no part of me that believes this ends well. Not anymore. And my thoughts won’t let me rest.
They circle back to David, over and over—how disturbed he seemed when he left the bakery, how something had clearly clicked into place. And then my mind drifts somewhere else. Somewhere softer. Somewhere that hurts in a different way.
Virginia. Poor, sweet Virginia.
A lump forms in my throat when I think about her. I’m almost grateful she didn’t live to see her son die. Losing her only child would have shattered her. I know it would have. She adored David in that quiet, steady way that never demanded anything in return.
But then another thought slips in, unwelcome.
Virginia…her sickness came on so swift.
One day she was fine—frail, yes, but lucid. Laughing. Asking me to show her silly videos on my phone. Complaining about hospital food and gossiping about neighbors. And then…she wasn’t. A rapid decline. Confusion. Weakness. A body that seemed to betray her almost overnight.
I straighten in my seat, my pulse quickening.
Elinor.
She hired the caregivers. She oversaw the estate. She had access to everything.
Alex and Reese have been unraveling lie after lie, and every thread seems to lead back to her.
Elinor chose who had access to Virginia. Who administered her medications. Who monitored her care. Who spoke to doctors on her behalf.
My heart starts to pound. Could she have done it? Could she have also been responsible for Virginia’s death?
The idea feels awful—almost sacrilegious—but I can’t shake it. Too much lines up. Too many convenient endings. Too many people standing in her way who are gone.
“I need to ask you something.”
Alex turns, attention locked on me. “What is it?”
I draw a breath. “Virginia’s illness…it came on sort of fast. Elinor hired her caregivers. She controlled everything towards the end.”
Alex’s expression changes—not alarmed, but alert. Focused.
“Are you thinking…” he asks, tilting his head in understanding.
“I am,” I admit. “And I hate it. But I need to know.” My voice wavers. “Can Reese dig into her medical records? Anything—medications, dosages, changes, inconsistencies. Anything that might point to foul play?”
Alex doesn’t dismiss it. Doesn’t soften it.
He nods once. “It’s a fair assumption.”
He pulls out his phone and steps a few feet away, already dialing. I hear his voice drop into that calm, controlled tone he uses when things matter.
“Reese,” he says. “Can you examine Virginia Allister’s medical records? End-of-life care. Caregivers. Medication changes. Anything unusual. I want a full picture.”
A pause.
“Yes,” he adds. “Discreetly. As fast as you can.”
He ends the call and comes back to me.
“We’ll know more soon,” he says, steady and reassuring.
I nod, though my chest feels tight. If I’m right—if Elinor didn’t just exploit death but caused it—then this isn’t only about me anymore. If Virginia and David were both in her way…
Then it’s inevitable that I’m next.
We stay at my place most of the afternoon.
Alex is quiet but focused, moving between calls and whatever Reese keeps feeding him—documents, timelines, things I don’t ask to see because I know my limits. I keep myself busy in the kitchen, making lunch, grounding myself in something familiar.
Focaccia sandwiches. His favorite.
Watching him eat, actually relax for a moment, feels oddly domestic—like this is a normal day instead of one stitched together by danger and secrets. The hours blur together faster than I expect them to.
Earlier, Val texted to say she can’t make it in to help prep for tomorrow. Her little one isn’t well. Completely normal. Completely understandable.
That’s when I tell Alex I need to go into the bakery.
“I can’t sit here anymore,” I admit. “Working helps. It keeps my head straight.”
He nods. “Let’s go, love,” he says.
He drives us, one hand steady on the wheel, the other occasionally brushing my knee like a quiet reminder that he’s there.
When we arrive, I unlock the door and let us in, the familiar smell of flour and sugar wrapping around me like armor.
Alex does his rounds first.
Checks the back. The alley. The doors. The cameras. Every corner. Every blind spot. He moves through the space as if he belongs there—protective without being intrusive.
Once he’s satisfied, we get to work.
Hours pass in a pace I know by heart. Measuring. Mixing. Kneading.
Alex rolls up his sleeves and jumps right in without being asked, flour dusting his forearms, focus as he mirrors my movements.
It feels…good. To have help without guilt. To have presence without pressure. To not be alone in the work for once.
Then his phone rings. He glances at the screen and his expression shifts.
“I need to take this, love.”
“Go on,” I reply, already turning back to the dough. I’m in my element. I don’t want to be bothered by more details right now.
Alex slips out the back door from the kitchen, voice murmured as he answers.
I keep working, muscle memory carrying me forward, and I hum to the music playing over the speakers.
That’s when it happens. That sudden awareness—the kind that prickles the skin before the brain catches up.
I feel a presence to my right, so I glance up. And my breath leaves me in a rush.
Elinor Allister stands inside the kitchen doorway, perfectly composed, impeccably dressed. And she’s pointing a gun at me.
Her eyes lock onto mine, cold and assessing.
This was always the plan. And I realize—far too late—that while Alex stepped away for one call…she chose her moment perfectly.