Chapter 9
Julian and Sarah hurried up the narrow back staircase, their footsteps echoing urgently against the stone walls, while Beatrice followed at a slower, more dignified pace behind them. When they reached the bright, fluorescent-lit mudroom near the back entrance, they found Officer Miller standing by the master control panel of the estate's closed-circuit security system. A steaming cup of black coffee sat untouched on the wooden counter beside her.
Officer Miller looked up as they entered, her expression grim. She tapped the screen of the main monitor, which displayed a frozen frame from an exterior camera mounted near the rear gates.
"Clara didn't leave the property in her car," Officer Miller stated bluntly, pointing a gloved finger at the timestamp in the corner of the monitor. 11:45 AM. Just an hour before Julian had arrived home through the storm.
Julian stepped closer, squinting at the grainy black-and-white footage. The image showed Clara walking briskly down the long gravel driveway, clutching a dark leather satchel to her chest, her red hair blowing wildly in the wind. But as the camera panned to follow her movement toward the treeline, a second figure stepped out from the shadows of the old oak trees—a tall, heavily bundled figure wearing a dark hooded coat.
"Who is that?" Sarah asked, her hand flying to her mouth, her fingers brushing gently against her bruised cheek.
"That is what I was hoping you could tell me," Officer Miller replied, tapping another key on the console. The video advanced by three seconds. The hooded figure did not attack Clara; instead, they exchanged a brief, intense conversation before Clara handed over the leather satchel containing the copies of the archive documents. Then, remarkably, Clara turned around and walked back toward the guesthouse, while the hooded figure vanished into the dense woods heading toward the river.
Julian stared at the screen, a cold dread washing over him. The timing didn't make sense. If Clara had given the documents to someone else hours before the argument in the guesthouse, then why had she been so frantic? Why had she thrown the coffee mug and struck Sarah?
"That wasn't a random person," Beatrice said quietly, stepping into the mudroom and leaning over the counter to inspect the monitor. Her face had gone completely pale, draining the last remnants of color from her cheeks. "I know that coat. It belonged to your father, Julian. He left it in the cedar closet thirty years ago."
The silence in the mudroom became absolute. The rhythmic hum of the security server sounded deafening in the enclosed space. Julian turned to look at his mother, his mind struggling to process the impossible implication.
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"My father?" Julian asked, his voice dangerously low. "You just told us he fled to Europe three decades ago. Are you saying he’s back?"
Beatrice looked away, unable to meet her son’s piercing gaze. The armor she had worn all evening had finally crumbled entirely, leaving behind the terrified woman she had tried to conceal for a lifetime.
