Chapter 5
The grandfather clock in the hallway struck midnight, its deep, resonant chimes echoing through the quiet corridors of the estate. In the living room, the fire had died down to a bed of glowing grey ash, leaving the space illuminated only by the faint, silvery moonlight filtering through the tall windows. Beatrice had long since retired to her quarters upstairs, her measured footsteps having faded away hours ago.
Julian sat on the plush sofa opposite the hearth, staring blankly at the mahogany side table where the digital camera had rested before Officer Miller took it away. His dark blue jacket lay draped over the arm of the sofa, and his grey sweater felt heavy and damp against his skin. Across the room, Sarah had finally managed to put the toddler to sleep in the nursery upstairs, but she had returned to the living room, sensing that sleep was impossible for either of them.
She stood near the tall window, her long red hair caught in the silver moonlight, wearing the same cream cardigan over her light shirt. The purple bruise on her cheek looked darker in the pale light, a permanent reminder of the evening’s violence.
"She kept everything in the archive room," Sarah said softly, breaking the long silence that had settled between them. Her breath formed a faint cloud against the cold glass pane. "Not just historical documents. Letters, photographs, journals belonging to the previous generations of this family. Clara spent months cataloging them."
Julian rubbed his tired eyes with the palms of his hands. "Why would Clara care about old family journals? She was a restoration specialist, not a historian."
"She told me once that houses remember everything," Sarah replied, turning her head to look at him. Her eyes were wide, filled with a sudden, unsettling realization. "She said the walls absorb the secrets of the people who lived inside them. At first, I thought it was just poetic nonsense. But then she showed me the entries from thirty years ago—letters written by your father before he left."
Julian stiffened, his hands dropping to his lap. His father had walked out on the family when Julian was just a boy, an event that Beatrice never discussed and that was treated as a forbidden taboo within the household. "What do those letters say?" Julian asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"They talk about a woman who vanished from this estate under very similar circumstances," Sarah said, stepping away from the window and walking slowly toward him. "A woman who argued with Beatrice, who threatened to expose something about the family’s finances, and who was last seen walking toward the guesthouse during a severe storm."
Julian stood up slowly, towering over her in the dim light. "That’s impossible. Mother told me she left us for another life in Europe."
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"Beatrice lies to protect her legacy, Julian," Sarah said firmly, stopping just inches from him. Her bruised face was inches from his own, yet there was no hesitation in her gaze. "Clara found the proof. That’s why the argument happened today. Clara wasn't just having an affair with someone on the estate—she was digging into the family’s darkest history, and she realized we were walking into the exact same trap."
Before Julian could absorb the staggering weight of her words, a sharp sound echoed from the hallway—the distinct click of a door latch turning in the dead of night.
