Chapter 7
The cool night air bit at Clara’s bare arms as she stepped off the gravel path and onto the flagstone trail leading toward the eastern gardens. The grand manor behind her was a glowing beacon of oblivious luxury, its brightly lit windows casting long, rectangular reflections across the lawn. But ahead of her lay the abandoned greenhouse, a skeletal structure of rusted iron framing and shattered panes of glass that gleamed like jagged teeth under the moonlight.
Clara moved with absolute silence, keeping low against the thick boxwood hedges that bordered the path. The heavy hunting rifle was held securely in her right hand, the cold steel and smooth wood grounding her racing thoughts. The wind rustled through the dead leaves overhead, creating a soft, whispering chorus that masked her footsteps.
As she drew closer to the greenhouse, a faint sliver of amber light caught her eye. It was coming from inside the structure, cutting a sharp beam through the overgrown ivy and wild blackberry bushes that choked the entrance.
Clara paused behind a thick stone pillar, her breathing shallow and controlled. She peered through a cracked glass pane. The interior was a jungle of dead tropical plants and creeping vines, but in the center clearing, someone had set up a small camp. A kerosene lantern sat on a wooden crate, illuminating a collection of old photographs spread across a table—photographs of Thomas, Eleanor, and Clara herself, marked through with harsh red slashes.
Standing beside the table was a tall, slender man wearing a dark trench coat. His back was turned to her, but his posture—rigid, arrogant, and unmistakably familiar—confirmed every suspicion. It was Julian Sterling.
Clara stepped out from behind the pillar, pushing the creaking wooden door of the greenhouse open with the barrel of her rifle. The sound echoed sharply in the enclosed space.
Julian didn't flinch. He slowly turned around, a slow, calculated smile spreading across his thin lips. His face bore a striking, haunting resemblance to her late husband, but the eyes were entirely devoid of warmth—cold, calculating, and intensely manic.
"Clara," he said smoothly, his voice carrying an eerie calmness that cut through the damp air. "I was wondering when you'd show up. I thought for a moment you might send Eleanor, but you've always had more backbone than the rest of this pathetic family."
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"Drop it, Julian," Clara said, raising the rifle with steady hands, the barrel aimed squarely at his chest. "The game is over. The police are already on their way."
Julian let out a low, dry chuckle, stepping casually around the wooden crate. "Are they, Clara? Did you actually call them? Because if you did, you just signed your own family's public execution."
