Chapter 217
Chapter 217:
She picked up her phone. She texted Elias.
He’s gone.
His reply was instant.
The lab results just cleared. We have the proof for Julian. And now, we have the rage for Noah. Tomorrow, we burn it all down.
In the back of a police car, Monica Reed sat staring through the wire mesh. Her tears had stopped. Her eyes were dry, red, and empty of everything except a burning, murderous hate.
She wasn’t a mother anymore. She was a hollow shell filled with fire.
The funeral home was quiet, smelling of lilies and formaldehyde. The casket was closed. Small. White.
Monica sat alone in the front row. She was disheveled. Her hair hadn’t been washed in two days. She ignored her husband, Preston, who was sobbing quietly a few feet away.
The doors opened.
Vivian Kensington entered. She was a vision of mournful elegance, dressed in perfect, fashionable black silk. She carried a bouquet of white roses.
She walked up to Monica.
“I’m so sorry, Monica,” Vivian said, her voice dripping with practiced sympathy. “Life is so fragile.”
Monica looked up. She searched Vivian’s face for guilt. For sorrow. For anything real.
She saw nothing but a reflection of her own makeup in Vivian’s eyes.
Vivian leaned closer. “At least he died pure,” she whispered. “Without those toxic hospital chemicals. You did the right thing, protecting him.”
Snap.
The last thread of Monica’s sanity broke. It wasn’t a loud sound. It was a silent severance.
Monica remembered the boutique. Aurora screaming He’s dying! Aurora begging to check his pulse.
She realized then, with crystal clarity, that the “feral Kensington” was the only person who had tried to save her son. And Vivian.
Vivian was the one who had handed her the poison.
Vivian checked her makeup in a compact mirror, oblivious to the predator awakening in front of her.
“I have a recital at the Manor tomorrow,” Vivian said, snapping the compact shut. “A charity showcase. You should come. It will cheer you up. I’m dedicating a song to him.”
The audacity left Monica breathless. A song? For the boy you killed?
“I’ll be there,” Monica said. Her voice was hollow, dead.
“Good,” Vivian smiled, patting Monica’s hand. “We have to keep up appearances.”
Vivian left, her heels clicking on the floor.
Monica stood up. She walked out of the viewing room and went to the small kitchen area provided for grieving families.
She opened a drawer.
She found a paring knife. Small. Sharp.
She took a lace handkerchief from her pocket and wrapped the blade. She slipped it into her purse.