Chapter 7
The heavy oak door swung inward, revealing the cool evening air and the woman who had haunted Arthur’s nightmares for half a decade. Elena Vance stood on the porch step, her hands thrust deep into the pockets of her wool trench coat. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The wind rustled the maples lining the pristine suburban street, carrying the scent of dry leaves and approaching frost.
"You're a hard person to track down, Arthur," Elena Vance said, her voice lower and huskier than Arthur remembered, worn down by years of grief and litigation. "Though I suppose buying a gated estate in an exclusive zip code helps with the screening process."
"How did you find this address?" Arthur asked, his voice flat, devoid of the corporate authority he usually commanded in boardrooms. He kept his body firmly planted in the doorway, blocking any view of the expansive foyer behind him.
"Legal discovery has a way of leaving paper trails, even when sealed by expensive Boston attorneys," Elena replied, stepping closer to the threshold. She didn't look angry; she looked tired—a profound, bone-deep exhaustion that matched the shadows beneath her dark eyes. "And don't bother trying to shut the door in my face, Arthur. I didn't drive six hundred hours from Massachusetts just to stare at your custom molding."
"You shouldn't be here," Arthur said, his jaw tightening as he gripped the edge of the doorframe. "We had an agreement. A signed, notarized, ironclad agreement."
"An agreement signed under duress," she countered sharply, taking another step forward until she was standing mere inches from him. "You used your money and your connections to make me feel like I had no choice. You told me I was unstable, unfit, a danger to my own flesh and blood. And for a long time, in the dark places of my own mind, I almost believed you."
"You were unstable, Elena," Arthur whispered fiercely, leaning down so his voice wouldn't carry into the quiet house behind him. "You walked out into a blizzard with a three-year-old child wearing nothing but a pajama top. Do you have any idea what that does to a father? Do you know what it’s like to find your daughter freezing on a park bench?"
Elena flinched, the memory striking her like a physical blow. Her shoulders sagged slightly, and for a second, the defensive armor she wore cracked, revealing the raw, bleeding wound underneath. "I was sick, Arthur. Postpartum depression isn't a moral failing; it’s a medical emergency. But instead of getting me help, you treated me like a criminal. You stole my child."
"I protected her," Arthur retorted, the phrase sounding hollow even to his own ears. It was the exact same justification he had used on Clara earlier that afternoon, and it tasted just as bitter.
May you like
"No, Arthur," a small voice echoed from the end of the dark hallway behind them. "You didn't protect us. You just hid us."
Arthur spun around. Standing at the threshold of the foyer, half-shrouded in the shadows of the evening, was Clara. She had changed out of her light blue dress and was now wearing an oversized grey sweater that hung off her slight frame. Her dark hair fell loosely around her face, and her eyes were dry, wide, and impossibly clear.
