Page 178 of This Life of Mine

A simple reminder. You’re not alone. You don’t have to carry this by yourself.

I press a gentle kiss to the top of her head.

“This is not on you, Lina.”

The tragedy of Lina’s life is that too many people have convinced her she is responsible for surviving what they put her through.

She sits, processing everything.

I stay beside her. Ready for whatever she needs.

“What are you thinking, love?”

She swallows hard. “I just keep thinking about Virginia. I’m so glad she’s not here to bury another child.”

My chest tightens. Of course that’s where her mind goes. Not to herself. She’s grieving for the woman who loved David. A mother. The woman who showed Lina the kindness she deserved. Even now, Lina’s heart somehow finds room for everyone else’s pain.

This isn’t Lina’s doing. It’s the work of Elinor Allister. Has to be. It all ties back to her.

It seems she’s cleaning up loose ends, and this became far more serious than it was an hour ago.

Every thread Reese pulls, every transaction I walked through yesterday under the guise of a fraud agent at the Allister’s‘ bank, points in one direction—Elinor Allister. Only she could have forged David’s signature. Clean nails. Steady voice. Now, widow’s black worn perfectly right. But the numbers don’t lie, and neither do people when they think they’re smarter than everyone else in the room.

She’s been moving money for years. Quietly. Strategically. Small shifts at first, then larger ones once Virginia passed. Trust distributions rerouted. Accounts consolidated. Shell entities layered enough to look legitimate—unless you know where to look.

And Reese does.

I don’t think David Allister’s death was planned, at least not this early.

With him gone, Elinor Allister becomes the grieving widow and sole authority. The story she tells herself is simple: take out the husband, eliminate the one and only other beneficiary, collect everything.

I text Reese.

I pocket my phone, my jaw locking into place as the full picture comes into focus.

Elinor thinks she’s the smartest person in every room she walks into. The kind of woman who mistakes composure for superiority, who believes money and proximity to power make her untouchable. She’s been surrounded by yes-men and silence for so long that she’s forgotten what real scrutiny feels like.

She believes grief is armor. That widowhood grants her immunity. That people will lower their voices, avert their eyes, and hesitate to ask hard questions becausetragedydemands politeness.

She’s counting on sympathy to dull suspicion, on manners to buy her time. And she thinks Lina is a loose end. A complication. A woman she can erase—convinced Lina is alone. Vulnerable. Replaceable.

She’s wrong on all counts.

Because the biggest mistake predators make is assuming everyone else plays by the same rules they do. Assuming restraint equals weakness. Assuming silence means ignorance.

She’s not dealing with someone who wants justice wrapped up in a neat little bow. I don’t care about closure, or courtrooms, or moral satisfaction.

I understand predators.

I know how they think. How they justify. How they convince themselves they’re entitled to take whatever stands in their way. I know how they hide behind institutions, money, and narratives they’ve carefully curated.

And I know how to dismantle them. Methodically and for good.

She made the mistake of turning this into a hunt. Because I don’t miss my targets.

Chapter fifty-three

Lina