We slipped out of the mansion like ghosts, leaving with Casplan’s mother’s precious journals and the damning video footage that would serve as Lilith’s death warrant.
$10
The next evening, we requested a private meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild in the mansion’s formal study. The atmosphere was tense, thick with unspoken resentment and guilt.
“What is the meaning of this, Rowan?” Mr. Fairchild began, his tone impatient. “If this is about what happened at the festival…”
Instead of answering, I placed my phone on the polished mahogany table and played the video.
We watched in silence as the color drained from their faces. The sound of Lilith’s cheerful, murderous plotting filled the room, a grotesque counterpoint to the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner.
We saw Mrs. Fairchild’s hand fly to her mouth, a strangled sob escaping her lips as the revelation about the staged car crash hit her. The entire foundation of her bond with Lilith, built on a lie of heroism and sacrifice, crumbled in a single, brutal moment.
When the video ended, the silence was deafening, broken only by Mrs. Fairchild’s ragged breathing.
*She… she never saved me,” she whispered, her eyes vacant with shock. “She tried to kill me then, too. She planned it all.”
11:40 PM P
Mr. Fairchild’s face was a mask of cold fury, the likes of which I had never seen. The lingering affection for the daughter he had raised had curdled into pure, unadulterated hatred.
“What do you want us to do?” he asked, his voice a low, dangerous growl. He looked at me, at the daughter he barely knew, and for the first time, he saw not a troubled girl, but a strategist. He saw a survivor.
“We’re not going to the police. Not yet,” I said, my voice steady as I laid out our plan. “We’re going to let her think she’s won. We’re going to let her walk right into the trap she built for you. We’re going to give her enough rope to hang herself.”
They listened, their expressions shifting from shock to a grim, terrible resolve. They agreed to everything.
611
A week later, the final act of the tragedy began.
Mr. Fairchild announced the family road trip to the lake house. As planned, Lilith feigned a sudden illness, complete with a faked doctor’s note, and stayed behind.
That afternoon, a police car pulled up to the mansion. A grim–faced officer delivered the news she had been waiting for. “There’s been a terrible accident. The Fairchild family’s car lost control on a mountain road and plunged off a cliff. There were no survivors.”
We watched on a hidden camera feed as Lilith put on a flawless performance of grief for the officer. But the moment the door closed, her face transformed.
She threw her head back and let out a wild, triumphant laugh. She ran to the liquor cabinet, pulling out a bottle of vintage champagne.
“I’m free! I’m rich!” she shrieked, dancing around the living room, champagne sloshing onto the expensive Persian rug.
She pulled out her phone and called the family lawyer. “It’s Lilith,” she purred into the phone. “About my parents‘ will…I believe I’m the sole beneficiary now. We should meet tomorrow to discuss the probate process.”
At that moment, the front door of the mansion creaked open.
Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild walked in, alive and well, their faces pale but resolute. They looked like ghosts returning to haunt their own murderer.
Lilith froze, the champagne flute slipping from her fingers and shattering on the floor. Her face twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated terror, a rictus of disbelief and horror.
“M–Mother? F–Father?” she stammered, backing away. “You… you’re supposed to be dead?”
“I’m afraid your plan failed, Lilith,” Mr. Fairchild said, his voice as cold as ice. “We know everything. The brakes. The staged car crash two years ago. We have it all on tape.”
