Chapter 8
The beam of light swept across the wet concrete, stopping just inches from where Clara and Maeve crouched behind the recycling bins. Both girls held their breath, pressing themselves flat against the cold brick wall. Heavy, measured footsteps crunched on the gravelly ground, drawing closer with every second.
"I know you're back here, girls," a voice called out softly. It wasn't the booming command of Jonathan Vance, nor the gruff bark of Arthur the orderly. It was a woman’s voice—warm, familiar, and laced with quiet urgency.
Eleanor stepped around the edge of the bins, her beige blouse soaked through from the rain, her hair completely unpinned and cascading wildly around her shoulders. She looked exhausted, but the fierce panic in her eyes had been replaced by a desperate determination.
Clara exhaled a shaky breath, stepping out from the shadows to shield Maeve slightly.
"Mom? How did you find us?" Clara asked, her voice still guarded with suspicion. "Did grandfather send you?"
Eleanor shook her head, tears spilling over her eyelashes as she looked directly at Maeve.
"No. I gave him the slip while his bodyguards were chasing that photographer on the roof," Eleanor said, her voice trembling as she knelt down on the wet pavement, bringing herself to eye level with her long-lost daughter. "I couldn't let him take you, Maeve. Not again."
Maeve stared at Eleanor, her large, emotional eyes searching the woman’s face for any sign of deceit.
"You were afraid of him for thirteen years," Maeve said quietly, her words cutting straight to the core of the matter. "What makes you think you can fight him now?"
Eleanor reached out, this time slowly enough for Maeve to accept the touch without flinching, and gently cupped her dirt-smudged cheek.
"Because I lost one daughter to his cruelty, and I refused to lose the other to my own cowardice," Eleanor whispered fiercely. "We need a place to hide. My sister—your aunt Sarah—lives on the coast, three hours from here. She doesn't know anything about the cover-up. She thinks you died in that fire, Maeve."
Clara’s eyes lit up with a spark of hope.
"Aunt Sarah’s cottage," Clara agreed quickly. "Grandfather never goes out there. It’s completely off the grid."
"We can't just run away," Maeve protested, shaking her head. "If we run, your grandfather wins. He keeps his money, his power, and his lies. I want the truth out. I want everyone to know what he did."
"If the truth comes out the wrong way, Jonathan will destroy us before we even reach a courtroom," Eleanor argued, her voice rising with desperate persuasion. "That photographer has pictures of all of us. If Jonathan gets the negatives first, he will paint you as a scam artist and us as victims of extortion. We need proof, Maeve. Real proof."
"Where do we get proof?" Clara asked.
Eleanor reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small, old-fashioned brass key.
"In the hospital basement archives," Eleanor said grimly. "The original paper registries from the night of the fire were never destroyed. Arthur hid them in locker 402."
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Before anyone could respond, the screech of tires echoed sharply from the street outside the courtyard, followed by the heavy slamming of car doors.
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