Chapter 7
Arthur stood on the porch, his trench coat buttoned to the chin, holding a thick leather briefcase. Behind him, standing by the edge of the gravel driveway, was a local sheriff’s cruiser with its amber light bar flashing slowly, casting an eerie orange glow over the yard. Margaret stood a few paces behind her husband, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her eyes darting past Clara to inspect the interior of the house.
"Well, Clara," Arthur said, adjusting his glasses with the practiced air of a man accustomed to presiding over boardrooms and bureaucratic hearings. "Running away from a family celebration is one thing, but locking your door to your parents is quite another. May we come in? It’s cold out here."
"You can stay right where you are," Clara said, her voice remarkably even. She kept her body firmly planted in the doorway, refusing to yield an inch of space. "You have no legal right to be here, Arthur. And if you brought the sheriff to intimidate me, you’re wasting everyone’s time."
Margaret stepped forward, her expression souring into a sneer of pure condescension. "Don't take that tone with your father, Clara. After everything we’ve done to protect you—to hide the rot in your bloodline so you could live a normal life—this is how you repay us? By throwing a tantrum in a community room and bolting like a common criminal?"
"Protect me?" Clara laughed, a sharp, humorless sound that made Margaret flinch. "Is that what you call forging birth certificates and burying medical records in a basement? Is that what you call treating me like a laboratory specimen while pretending to be a loving family?"
Arthur’s face hardened, the mild-mannered facade slipping away to reveal the cold, calculating administrator underneath. He shifted his briefcase to his other hand. "Julian has been talking to you, hasn't he? I saw his car parked down by the county road. The man is a pathological liar, Clara, a parasite who burned through his inheritance thirty years ago and has been trying to blackmail this family ever since."
"Julian showed me the files, Arthur," Clara said steadily, her gaze locked onto her adoptive father. "The clinical trial from eighty-eight. The viral vectors. The reason why you adopted me isn't because you wanted a daughter—it was because you were assigned to manage the collateral damage."
May you like
Margaret let out a sharp gasp, her hand flying to her mouth, her eyes widening in genuine terror. "You don't know what you're saying, Clara. That research... it wasn't just data. It’s unstable. It alters cellular replication. If it activates in you, it activates in Maeve. That’s why we filed the emergency custody petition this afternoon. For the baby’s safety."
"You didn't file it for Maeve's safety," Clara replied, her voice dropping to a low, venomous whisper. "You filed it to keep your secrets buried, just like you buried my birth mother. But it’s too late. The files are out, and I am not hiding anymore."
