The stairwell was dim, lit only by the golden pool of light bleeding from the living room below. Harper's hand trailed the bannister like it was the only solid thing she could touch. Each step groaned beneath her weight, but she moved carefully, deliberately—like someone afraid of waking up a sleeping house, or a sleeping version of herself.
She could already hear the laughter. Soft and sporadic, wrapped in the tinny hum of a sitcom rerun.
At the bottom of the stairs, she paused in the hallway. The Baldwin living room was alive in the cozy kind of chaos she remembered from childhood—if you squinted hard enough and forgot everything that came after.
Aura and Leah were curled on the couch, heads bent over Leah's phone, giggling about something on social media. Leah's purple socks were kicked halfway off, and Aura's face glowed with that rare kind of ease Harper hadn't seen on her in months. Jackson was sprawled sideways on the loveseat with Ashley tucked into his side, her legs across his lap, her nails idly tracing circles on his arm. On the floor, Cody and Millie sat tangled in a blanket, trading bites of popcorn like they had nowhere else in the world to be.
They looked like the end of a feel-good family movie. Like nothing had shattered. Like Harper hadn't spent weeks in Warren. Like their grandmother hadn't been murdered.
No one looked up.
Harper didn't stop.
The kitchen was lit like a diner—bright and sterile, with fluorescent light bouncing off the counters. A half-eaten spread of takeout lined the island: Styrofoam boxes half-closed, chopsticks askew, grease soaking into paper bags. The room smelled like garlic and soy sauce and old sesame oil.
Harper walked to the counter, picked up a cold chicken wing, and sat without speaking. The stool creaked beneath her. She chewed slowly, rhythmically, her eyes distant.
Behind her, a cupboard slammed.
She didn't need to turn. She knew that sound.
Harriet.
Her older sister stood near the pantry, rifling through bottles with a desperate clumsiness. Her hoodie was oversized and stained at the sleeves, her hair in a careless bun that looked like it hadn't been brushed in days. Her mascara was smudged beneath her eyes, and her hands trembled ever so slightly as she reached up.
A bottle emerged. Dusty. Cheap wine. Probably leftover from some forgotten holiday or social event. Harriet exhaled like she'd just been handed oxygen.
She saw Harper. Froze for a moment. Then, silently, she grabbed a glass, poured herself a drink, and took the stool beside her sister.
The silence swelled between them. Loud. Uncomfortable. Familiar.
Harper kept chewing.
Her jaw moved with the steady rhythm of someone who wasn't hungry but needed something—anything—to ground herself. The cold chicken wing was dry, greasy on her lips, but she didn't taste it. She barely even noticed when the cartilage cracked between her teeth. Her eyes stared at nothing, her thoughts louder than the room around her.
Beside her, Harriet drank.
The cheap red wine sloshed slightly in the glass as she brought it to her mouth. Her hand trembled—not violently, but enough that Harper noticed. Enough that the glass almost tapped against her front teeth before she tilted it back. She didn't sip. She drank like she needed it. Like she was trying to drown something inside her, one desperate swallow at a time.
The air between them was thick—too thick for the kitchen. It was the kind of stillness usually reserved for hospital rooms and confessionals. Or funerals.
Then Harriet's voice cracked the silence.
"You know.. I went to Grandma's that night."
The words hung in the air like dust in sunlight—unmoving, suspended, heavy.
Harper didn't look up, didn't speak, but her jaw stilled mid-chew. Her body tensed—just slightly—but enough to signal she'd heard every word.
Harriet's voice dropped lower, almost a whisper now. "I didn't go there to talk."
She paused. Drained the last bit of wine from her glass, set it down with a faint clink, then wrapped both hands around the stem like it might anchor her.
"I went there to kill her, Harper."
This time, Harper blinked.
Her chewing stopped completely. Slowly, deliberately, she set the chicken wing back down onto the crumpled foil it came in. Her gaze didn't shift from the countertop, but something in her eyes sharpened—like a camera lens pulling into focus. Her posture didn't change, but everything about her went alert.
Harriet let out a short, bitter breath. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, hard.
"I know how insane that sounds. Me? I can't even handle confrontation let alone murder." she muttered.
"But I was so furious, Harper. I've been carrying this hate for so long and I didn't even realize how deep it went until I was standing on her porch. I fucking hated her."
Her voice shook as she listed it, each name and reason like a stone tossed into a lake.
"For what she did to you. For sending you to that horrible camp and calling it therapy. For making Aura feel like her entire worth was her waistline. For ignoring Jackson like he was just a shadow and burden in the hallway. For acting like she loved me and Cody—like really loved us—but only when other people were watching. It was all fucking fake."
Her voice cracked, and she gritted her teeth.
"She didn't care about us. Not the way we needed. She just wanted us to make her look good."
Harper still didn't move. Didn't interrupt. But her eyes—dark, glassy, unreadable—flicked sideways. A flicker of interest. Of pain.
Harriet pressed on. "I had some crushed up pills." she confessed, barely above a whisper.
"I kept it in the inside pocket of my coat. I even practiced pouring it in my hand before I knocked on the door." Her mouth twisted into a humourless smile.
"I told her everything in the end—why I came, what I was feeling, what she had done to us. And you know what she did?"
She let out a low, bitter laugh that bordered on a sob.
"She laughed. Looked me straight in the face and called me dramatic. Told me I needed to stop being weak and that I was becoming a disappointment to our family.. That she thought I was different and better than everyone else. That I was letting her down."
She rubbed her forehead with one trembling hand, as if trying to erase the memory, or maybe press it deeper so it hurt less.
"I wanted to do it." she whispered. "I was right there. I was so close. But I froze. I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. I just stood there while she dismissed me like she always did." She closed her eyes for a long second.
"I ended up walking out before I could do anything. Didn't even look back."
The kitchen hummed around them—the dull electric buzz of the refrigerator, the faint tick of the wall clock above the pantry. Outside, a car drove by with music thumping through its windows. But here, at this island, in this moment—it was as though time had slowed to a crawl.
Harriet's voice dropped, raw and frayed. "The next morning, when I found out she was dead... I thought it was my fault. I thought maybe I left the door unlocked, or someone saw me go in and took it as permission. I don't know. But I haven't stopped thinking about it since."
Harper didn't speak. Didn't blink. But something inside her face—something tight—loosened, just barely.
"I've been pretending I'm okay." Harriet said, almost choking on the words. "But I'm not. I feel like I'm drowning most days. Like I can't catch up. And I'm the oldest. I was supposed to look after all of you. I was supposed to be strong."
She looked down at her glass. "Instead, I just fucking shattered."
Harper turned, finally, just slightly—her eyes still not meeting Harriet's, but her body angled in her direction. Her voice, when it came, was flat but curious.
"Why are you telling me this?"
Harriet stared at her hands. Her nails were bitten raw, chipped with fading polish. Her voice, when it returned, was steady—more certain now.
"Because you're not the only one who feels like a disappointment in this family anymore."
She took a breath, deeper this time. Her words were confessional now—measured but deeply, painfully honest.
"I got pregnant." Her lips twisted like the word physically hurt. "It was a one-night stand. Some guy she tried to palm me off with. We were super drunk. I barely even remember how it started." She gave a bleak laugh. "Stupid, right?"
Harper's eyes remained on her, unreadable.
"I didn't tell him. Didn't tell anyone. I couldn't even say the word out loud to myself. But —Grandma found out. She always did, didn't she?"
Harriet's voice hardened.
"She looked at me like I was dirt on her shoe, and said if I didn't tell Mom and Dad, she would. That it was time I learned consequences. That they would be so upset with me." Her voice dropped into a hollow whisper.
"I panicked. If Mom and Dad knew-.. I thought they would've disowned me there and then."
She poured another glass of wine, slower this time. Her fingers no longer shook.
"I didn't go through with it. I couldn't bring myself to do anything. I just... went home."
Harper stared at her for a long, breathless moment. The silence stretched, weighted, until finally—quietly—she spoke.
"I went there that night too."
Harriet's breath caught. She blinked. "What?"
Harper nodded once, solemn. "With a gun."
She looked down at the countertop, her voice turning to ice.
She swallowed hard.
"I wanted to shoot her. Right through the head. I imagined it. Over and over. Her surprise. The blood. The silence afterward. I thought it would fix everything. I wanted to scare her. Just like how I was scared."
Harriet's mouth had gone dry. Her knuckles were white on her wine glass.
"But I couldn't do it either." Harper said, her voice suddenly softer. "My finger was on the trigger. I even aimed. But I couldn't move. I was just... stuck. Like something inside me knew it wouldn't make it better. It would just make me worse. Even though that woman deserved more than a gunshot to the forehead."
She exhaled, the sound long and heavy.
"So I left too. Thought if I can't shoot her then I might as well shoot myself. Funny because I couldn't even do that either."
They sat there for a beat. Then another.
The two sisters—one with shaking hands and a bottle of wine, the other with oil-stained fingers and silence—finally met each other's eyes.
"But If you didn't kill her.." Harriet said slowly. "and I didn't..."
Her voice trailed off.
"Then who did?"
The question landed between them like a dropped knife. Cold. Sharp. Final.
Neither of them answered.
But both of them knew what it meant.
Someone else had hated that woman enough to finish what they couldn't.