Page 31 of The Reckoning (Oakmount Elite #7)

SEVENTEEN

ARSON

T he laptop screen burns my eyes after hours of staring at it, scrolling through financial records, property deeds, and corporate filings—anything that might reveal why my backers are suddenly pushing their timeline.

Why are they so interested in Lilian? After all this time, why now?

The warehouse is quiet this afternoon. Aries went out to meet with some contact—against my advice, but nobody gives a shit what I think.

Lilian’s been in the shower for the past twenty minutes, the distant sound of running water the only thing breaking the silence.

I rub my eyes, trying to focus on the screen again.

Something’s missing. There’s some missing connection I’m not seeing.

These men didn’t invest millions in my revenge plot out of the goodness of their fucking hearts.

They want something. Something specific.

And it has to do with Lilian. She’s the only connection I can think of.

They might have kidnapped her to get to Aries and me, but they didn’t really hurt her, and they accepted my request for more time too quickly after all the trouble of catching her.

It’s been bothering me for the past couple of days.

When we first met, a couple of years ago now, they found me at the edge of the campus stalking Aries. So why had they been stalking Aries in the first place?

The deal we made involved them setting me up completely to bring down the Hayes empire.

They asked it be done quickly, once the warehouse was in place, even going so far as to make sure I had extra resources to set up my very specific revenge for Aries.

However, they never set a strict timeline for when they wanted my work done, and they didn’t start escalating things until Lilian entered the picture.

I did what research I could on the guys.

The older one is always the one in charge.

I think the other is his son, but they never seemed to talk to each other as father and son.

Nor had they ever let a single name slip in all the time we spoke.

Instead, they used mutually assured destruction as a means of leverage between us.

On a hunch, I search for information about the day of the boathouse incident. It’s not something I do often—deliberately dredge up the worst day of my life—but my gut tells me I’m missing a connection there.

I find photos from that summer gathering at the lake house, everyone dressed in white like some Great Gatsby bullshit.

Richard with his first wife, my mother, Elizabeth.

And there’s Patricia—not as Richard’s wife yet, but as his assistant, hovering at the edges of the frame.

She worked for him back then, years before they married after my mother’s death.

Patricia knew Richard. Patricia was there that day at the lake house. Patricia witnessed what happened.

The realization sends me hurtling back—not to a forgotten memory, but to one I’ve spent years trying to bury.

The lake house. Summer. The boathouse. My mother’s face disappearing beneath the dark water.

I slam the laptop shut, as if that might block out the memories that are always there, lurking just beneath the surface of my consciousness.

The ones that fuel my rage, my revenge, and my entire existence since that day.

“Fuck,” I mutter, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Arson?”

I whirl around to find Lilian standing in the doorway, hair still damp from her shower, concern etched across her features. I must look as unstable as I feel because she approaches cautiously, like she’s dealing with a wild animal.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, glancing at the laptop, then back at me. “Did you find something?”

I can’t answer immediately. The memories of the boathouse—memories I’ve carried for years, ones that have shaped every aspect of my existence—are too close to the surface. My throat feels tight, my chest constricted. It’s been years since I’ve had a panic attack, but I recognize the signs.

“Hey, hey.” Lilian’s voice cuts through the roaring in my ears. She’s closer now, her hand hovering near my arm like she wants to touch me but isn’t sure if she should. “Breathe with me, okay? In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

I follow her lead mechanically, dragging in air through my nose and forcing it out through my mouth. Once, twice, three times. The room stops spinning gradually, the edges of my vision clearing.

“That’s it,” she encourages, her voice soft in a way I’m not used to people speaking to me. “Just keep breathing.”

When I can finally speak again, the words come out rough, scraping against my throat. “I found something. About your mother. And the boathouse incident.”

“My mother?” she asks, finally allowing her hand to settle on my arm. The touch grounds me, giving me something to focus on besides the memories that threaten to pull me under again.

I open the laptop and show her the photo. “Patricia was there. The day my mother died. She worked for Richard back then, before they got married.”

Lilian studies the image, her fingers hovering over the screen as if she could touch the people in it. “She was there that day?”

“Looks that way,” I say, watching her reaction carefully. “She was Richard’s assistant back then. Before they got married after my mother’s death.”

Her eyes narrow slightly as she examines the photo. “She never told me she knew the Hayes family before Richard. Another lie in a lifetime of them.”

“Patricia’s always been good at hiding things she doesn’t want others to see,” I comment, the bitterness in my voice impossible to disguise.

“What happened that day?” Lilian asks, her voice gentle, like she knows she’s treading on broken glass. “At the boathouse?”

I’ve never told anyone the whole truth. Not that it matters—I’ve lived with it every day since it happened and replayed it in my mind so many times that it’s etched into me like a scar.

But looking at Lilian now, at the genuine concern in her eyes, at the absence of judgment or fear, something compels me to speak.

“I was fourteen—we were fourteen,” I begin, the words coming easier than expected. “It was summer. One of Richard’s business gatherings at the lake house.”

I move back to the desk, turning the laptop so she can see the photo better.

“Aries wanted to impress a girl.” I pause.

Her name was Sophia. Just a girl who’d been hanging out with us.

One of Richard’s business associate’s daughters.

He suggested they check out the boathouse.

I followed them—not because I cared, but because I was bored.

Fourteen-year-olds at an adult party, you know? ”

Lilian nods, pulling up another chair to sit beside me, close enough that I can smell the clean scent of her shampoo and feel the warmth radiating from her skin.

“The boathouse was off-limits. Richard had been clear about that. It was being renovated, and it wasn’t safe. Aries didn’t care. He was always pushing boundaries, seeing what he could get away with.”

My hands clench involuntarily, nails digging into my palms. “He was climbing on the rafters, showing off. Dared Sophia to join him. She was hesitant, but he kept pushing. ‘Don’t be a baby,’ he told her. ‘It’s perfectly safe.’”

I can still hear his voice, see his smirk as he balanced on the wooden beam above the boats. So confident. So certain of his own invulnerability.

“She finally gave in and started climbing up to join him. I stayed on the ground, watching. I knew it was stupid, but...” I shrug, the old familiar guilt settling heavy on my shoulders. “I didn’t stop them.”

Lilian’s hand finds mine, her fingers cool against my overheated skin. “You were just a kid,” she says quietly.

“So was Aries,” I counter. “Didn’t stop him from being a reckless asshole.”

I take another deep breath, forcing myself to continue. “Sophia slipped. The beam was wet or rotted, I don’t know. She fell. Hit her head on one of the boats on the way down, then landed in the water.”

The image is so vivid now—the girl’s body twisting in the air, the sickening thud as her head connected with the edge of the speedboat, the splash as she hit the water. The blood, spreading like spilled wine across the surface.

“Aries froze. Just stood there on the beam, staring down at the water where she’d disappeared. I yelled at him to do something, to help her, but he wouldn’t move. Couldn’t move.”

My voice hardens as the anger rises, familiar and comforting after the disorienting panic. “I was about to jump in after her when my mother appeared in the doorway. She must have heard the commotion and come looking for us.”

Lilian’s grip on my hand tightens, as if she senses what’s coming next.

“She saw Sophia in the water, saw the blood. Didn’t hesitate.

Went in after her.” My throat constricts around the words, making them come out strangled.

“She managed to grab Sophia, push her toward the edge where I could reach her. But one of the smaller boats—a canoe or something that was hanging from the ceiling—it fell. Hit the water, capsized. Trapped her underneath.”

The memory is crystal clear now—my mother’s face, visible through the dark water for just a moment, her hand pushing Sophia’s limp body toward the edge where I knelt. Then came the crash as the boat fell, followed by the terrible stillness that ensued.

No. I shake my head, trying to bring the memories back like the dark, hazy surface of the water that day. She was listing to the side before she jumped in, almost like she didn’t have her balance. Then when she didn’t come back up...

“I tried to lift the boat to get to her, but I wasn’t strong enough.” My voice cracks on the admission, the failure that has haunted me for years. “I wasn’t fucking strong enough.”