ISAAC'S POV
Lana perched on the couch's edge like a bird about to take flight. Her fingers pressed against her lips, trembling. The afternoon light streaming through Elijah's windows caught the surface of her pearl necklace, sending fractured gleams across the room's carefully arranged surfaces—the mahogany side tables, the silver-framed photographs clustered on the mantel like sentries. All those smiling faces. All those lies.
I shifted my weight, the floorboards creaking beneath my feet. The sound echoed in the silence that had settled between us, heavy as smoke.
"You knew." The words came out rougher than I intended.
Her breathing quickened. Those manicured hands twisted in her lap, knuckles bleaching white against her navy dress. She stared at a spot on the Persian rug between us.
"You knew Elijah killed Dad." I stepped closer. "You helped cover it up."
