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I take my hand from my pocket. The knife rests in my palm, open, the blade still stained with Nick’s blood. I stare at it, my fingers tightening.

“You can kill me with that knife. There’d be a certain poetic justice in that,” Magnus says. “Or you can go down off this mountain and tell everyone exactly what happened. But I’m never going to see the inside of a prison cell.”

“You don’t think they’ll believe me? Or Alexis? Connor?” I ask.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll convince them. But the thing is, I’m dying.” He quirks his eyebrows, his tone ironic. “Pancreatic cancer. I have maybe eight months or a year left to live, at most. I’d rather not spend all that time on a trial. So I’ll make a deal with you. We all leave here with the same story. Nick killed Olena and tried to frame you for it. When you found out, he tried to kill you, too. His death was a matter of self-defense. Terrible, of course. We’ll take a hit. But he doesn’t work for the company. We’ll denounce his actions thoroughly, and invite you—Theodora Scott, you understand, not Rowan Cahill—into our family. You and Connor will get married in a beautiful ceremony, and the world will see how you’ve forgiven us. Everyone gets their happy ending, and you get to know that I’m rotting in the ground.”

My hands feel frostbitten, numb. I can feel every ridge of the knife in my hand, the texture of the antler it’s carved from. Was it a deer Magnus killed himself? I wonder.

He takes another sip of his drink, then holds out the one he poured for me. “Are you sure you don’t want any?”

“Why would I agree to any of that?” I ask him.

“Because it is the kindest outcome, don’t you think? You and Con nor get to have your life together, with the resources and comfort that he is due. Rose and Paloma and Sebastian are all taken care of. Trevor, too, I suppose, though I’m sure he’ll find a way to squander it. Nick is dead. I will be dead. That’s not enough?”

“No, it’s not enough,” I bite out. “That’s not justice.”

“Justice, my dear, is not an option,” Magnus says with a hint of regret. “I am not going to suffer, no matter what you choose to do. Kill me now and you’ll be robbing me of a scant few months of what I’m told is likely to be agonizing pain, while leaving yourself in legal peril. You killed a man today, Theo. Expose me, and I’ll endure a great deal of annoyance at the end of my life, but little more. Accept the terms, and you will have all of the protection of any Dalton. We take care of our own, Theo, and that includes you. But only if you agree.”

The knife warms in my hand. It would be so easy to let it find the soft parts of him. He says I can’t make him suffer? I’m certain I could find a way.

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, like he’s forgotten something. “Ah. But I’ll tell you what. There is one more thing you are owed, and which I will be happy to grant, if you agree.”

“And what’s that?” I ask.

“I’ll tell you where your mother is buried,” he says. My hand jerks in an involuntary spasm. “If you refuse, I promise you—you will never find her. So make your choice.”

My mother. My throat closes up. Images swarm through my mind, but I know that they aren’t truly my memories. I don’t remember my mother’s face. I know it from photographs, that’s all. She will always be a stranger to me, a ghost. But I could find her. I could lift her up from the cold earth and I could give her a proper burial.

I could say goodbye.

I step toward him, the knife in my hand. He holds his ground. He does not flinch.

I set the knife on the silver tray beside him, fingers uncurling slowly from around the grip.

“Theo?” he says. “What is your decision?”

I walk away from him. Out into the foyer, where the Christmas tree still looms, all twinkling lights and silver and gold baubles. Connor is there, waiting for me.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

I reach out, take his hand. Mine is creased with blood and dirt. His is pale and soft, but he grips me tightly.

“I’m all right,” I tell him. I swallow. “And I know what I need to do.”