She wanted everyone to believe Richard had attacked her, but she never expected the room itself to become his witness.

Back at the Whitmore estate, the house was quiet, but it was not at peace.

The physical mess in the library had been cleaned up. The pearl buttons had been picked up from the rug and placed in an evidence bag in Vance’s office. The heavy mahogany doors were closed.

Ethan sat alone in the living room, staring at the cold fireplace. A crystal glass of scotch sat untouched on the side table beside him.

The silence of the massive house felt heavy, oppressive, almost violent. Every corner of the room reminded him of his own stupidity. The paintings on the wall, the custom furniture he had chosen with Sophia, the soft rugs—everything felt contaminated by the lingering spirit of a five-year lie.

Clara walked into the room, holding two cups of chamomile tea. She set one on the table next to his untouched drink and sat down in the armchair opposite him.

"She’s gone, Ethan," Clara said softly. "Sterling drove her to a hotel near the airport. She checked in using her maiden name."

Ethan didn't respond. He didn't move.

"Ethan," Clara said, leaning forward. "You need to talk to Dad again."

"I can't look at him, Clara," Ethan said, his voice flat and dead. "Every time I look at his face, I see the red mark on his cheek. I see the look in his eyes right before I hit him. I did that. Not Sophia. Me."

"You were manipulated by a psychopath, Ethan!"

"I was eager to believe it!" Ethan snapped, turning his head to look at his sister, his eyes bloodshot and filled with self-loathing. "Don't you get it, Clara? Sophia didn't just trick me! She tapped into a hidden, ugly part of me that was jealous of Dad’s control! Part of me—some sick, pathetic part of me—wanted an excuse to tear him down! That’s why I didn't ask questions! That’s why I hit him before he could even speak!"

Clara fell silent. She looked at her brother with deep pity, understanding the dark weight of the realization that was crushing him.

"You can't fix the past, Ethan," she said quietly. "But you can decide whether you’re going to let her ruin your relationship with Dad forever. He’s sitting upstairs in his reading room. He hasn't eaten dinner. He’s seventy-five years old, Ethan. He doesn't have thirty years left for you to spend feeling guilty."