Chapter 11: Journey to Oakridge
The iron gates of Oakridge Estate loomed out of the dense coastal fog like the skeletal ribs of a forgotten leviathan. The sprawling Victorian manor sat atop a jagged cliff overlooking the crashing waves of the North Atlantic, surrounded by neglected gardens choked with briars and dead ivy. Julian parked their rented sedan fifty yards down the winding gravel drive, cutting the engine so the sudden silence of the estate washed over them.
Clara sat in the passenger seat, staring up at the imposing dark timber facade of her childhood home. Her hands rested gently over her protruding belly, her posture tense but resolute.
“Are you sure you want to go through with this today?” Julian asked softly, reaching across the console to squeeze her hand. “We could wait until the police execute the formal search warrant next week. You don't need to walk into that house.”
“If we wait for the police, Evelyn’s legal team will find a loophole to seal the property under corporate asset protection before the warrant clears,” Clara replied, her voice steady and resolute. “My mother’s influence runs deep in this county, Julian. We need to find what’s in that vault ourselves, tonight, while she’s still locked in a holding cell.”
Julian nodded slowly, pulling the vintage bronze key from his jacket pocket and turning it over in his palm. He checked the clip of his borrowed flashlight, ensuring the beam was strong. They stepped out of the car into the biting sea wind, walking up the moss-covered stone steps toward the grand double doors of the manor.
The heavy front doors were unlocked—a testament to Evelyn’s absolute arrogance. They slipped inside into the cavernous, dust-laden foyer. The air smelled of old paper, damp wood, and faded lavender potpourri. Grand crystal chandeliers hung overhead, unlit and coated in a fine layer of gray grime, casting long, twisting shadows across the parquet floors.
“The north wing is through the formal dining room and down the servants’ corridor,” Clara whispered, leading the way with a familiarity born of a childhood spent running through these echoing halls.
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They moved with practiced quiet, avoiding the floorboards that groaned loudest. The temperature dropped noticeably as they crossed the threshold into the north wing, a section of the house that had been cordoned off with a heavy deadbolt lock years ago. But the door hung slightly ajar, the brass latch busted cleanly from the wood frame.
Julian stepped in front of Clara, sweeping his flashlight beam across the dark, narrow hallway lined with heavy velvet drapes and portraits of stern, unsmiling ancestors whose painted eyes seemed to follow them every step of the way. At the very end of the corridor stood a heavy iron-reinforced oak door, fitted with an elaborate, antique brass keyhole that matched the exact dimensions of the bronze key in Julian’s hand.
