Picture Perfect - Page 179

“I have something.” My words float between us, heavy with implications. “Something they can’t wriggle out of. But I hoped…” I trail off, the weight of my secret pressing down on me. “It’s back at the house.”

Saint straightens up, the lines of his face hardening. “Princess, no,” he says, the words sliced thin with anxiety.

“Absolutely not,” Dre seconds, his ice-blue eyes flaring with a protective fire.

Chess just shakes his head, his dark hair falling into his troubled gaze. “We can find another way.”

But I’m resolute, fueled by a fire they don’t fully understand. “You don’t get it,” I insist, my own resolve pushing back against their fears. “I’ve documented everything. All the things they did, all the secrets they thought they could bury, every dirty, disgusting thing they did to me. It’s all there, in the house. It can put them away—for good.”

“Then let’s send someone else,” Saint argues, but I know it’s futile. He knows it too; it’s written in the clench of his jaw, the tension in his arms. “You know—”

“I know,” I cut him off, meeting his gaze squarely. “But I have to be the one to get it. Someone else might never find it, even if they knew what they were looking for.”

Silence hangs between us, heavy and expectant. I can see the calculations behind Mason’s eyes, the risk assessment, the protective instinct clashing with pragmatism. But he nods once, sharply, decision made.

Dre steps forward, the plea evident in every line of his body. “Please, Snowflake. There has to be another way. We can’t lose you to that place again.”

“Listen to me.” My eyes lock with his, and then I turn to include Saint and Chess in my fierce gaze. “I survived that house once, and I’ll do it again. But this time, I come back with the key to their downfall.”

Saint’s jaw clenches, a silent sentinel of worry. Dre’s eyes narrow; he understands the necessity, but the protective fury is palpable. Mason runs a hand through his hair, the gesture betraying his frustration.

“Absolutely not, Snowflake,” Dre growls, the words vibrating with a barely contained storm. “Do you even remember what I walked in on? What state you were in when we got you out of there?”

“It’s not ideal, but it is necessary,” I counter, my own determination matching his. “I’ll be in and out before they even know what’s happening.”

We lock eyes, two wills colliding and sparking in the tense air between us. Finally, with a curt nod, Saint concedes, “Fine. But we’re going with you.”

And just like that, the pieces are set in motion. We have a plan, shaky as it may be. But it’s a chance, a sliver of hope—and that’s all I need.

We’re dressed and in the car within thirty minutes. The car ride over is thick with unsaid promises of retribution should anything go awry. We pull up to the Winthrop estate, its grandeur now nothing more than a hollow facade to me.

The key slides into the lock with a satisfying click, and I push the heavy door open. My heart is a war drum in my chest as we step into the cavernous foyer of the Winthrop estate, a house that’s more mausoleum than home. Saint’s hand is a warm pressure at the small of my back, Dre’s eyes scanning every shadow like a hawk, and Chess’s jaw is set, his usual humor gone.

Mason is there with us too. He said he had a plan. So, here we are.

As we step inside, the hostility hits us like a wave. Cheryl stands, her arms crossed, a sneer painting her features grotesque. William’s face is livid, the vein on his forehead a testament to his fury.

“Adelaide,” Cheryl coos, her voice like ice cracking. “You’ve decided to grace us with your presence.”

I spare her no words, moving toward the stairs. That’s when she surges forward, her manicured fingers clawing for my arm. But I’m faster; I’ve learned to be quick, to predict their movements. My fist connects with her face, and she stumbles back, shock etched into her features.

“Touch me again,” I spit out, “and it’ll be the last thing you do.”

“Adelaide, you ungrateful brat,” William spits. “Come home this instant or—”

“Or what?” I cut him off, my voice a blade of ice. “You’ll call the cops? Go ahead. We’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Twenty-four hours,” Cheryl chimes in, her voice dripping venom. “That’s how long you have before we take action.”

“Don’t think we’ll be lenient either. They’re harboring a runaway minor, Adelaide. That’s a crime.”

“Let’s go, wife,” Saint intervenes, his voice thunderous in the quiet room. The title hangs in the air, a pronouncement, a challenge. And it works. The Winthrops fall silent, their expressions morphing from anger to astonishment.

I release Cheryl’s wrist, brushing past her with a newfound strength. Saint is by my side in an instant, his presence a protective barrier against the toxicity of my former guardians. As we make our way through the house, every step feels like shedding another layer of their hold on me.

“Quickly,” I whisper, leading them toward the hidden trove of truths that could finally sever the ties that bind.

The door creaks open, an all-too-familiar sound that sends a ripple of unease through me. Saint’s hand is a vice around mine, grounding, while Chess’s touch is a gentle reminder of the here and now. I step into the room, their fingers intertwined with mine—my lifelines in this place that is full of ghosts.