Chapter 7 - The Reckoning
When Dominic returned, the house was silent, save for the hum of the police sirens fading in the distance. He walked into the kitchen and saw the scene: the man tied up on the floor, the cast-iron pan on the counter, and Beatrice sitting in a chair, reading a storybook to Leo as if nothing had happened.
Dominic stood in the doorway, his eyes scanning the room, his face an unreadable mask.
“You did this?” he asked, looking at the intruder.
“He was looking for Leo,” Beatrice said, her voice calm. “I didn't think it was a good idea.”
Dominic walked over to her. He knelt in front of her chair, his knees hitting the floor with a soft thud. He reached out and took her hand—the hand that had held the pan. It was bruised, shaking, and cold.
“You could have died,” he whispered.
“I could have,” she agreed. “But I didn't. And neither did he.”
Dominic looked at her—not as a nanny, not as an employee, but as a woman who had just stared into the abyss and hadn't blinked. He leaned forward, his forehead resting against hers.
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“I have spent my life building walls,” he said. “I thought I was protecting what was mine. But I was just building a tomb.”
“Then knock them down,” Beatrice said. “Start with the ones inside.”
