The estate had never felt so still that night, as if it held its breath. Even the hallways, still noisy during the night hours, had an uncanny silence to them. Outside, rainstorms began to brew; it sounded as though the house itself had noticed that a battle was commencing.
I paced my room, my fingers twitching to reach for the folder under my mattress. The letter kept replaying in my mind. Jonathan’s voice echoed in my head, pleading with me to take action. But what was I supposed to do without raising Damon's or Clarissa's suspicions?
A knock at my door startled me.
“Elara?" Damon's voice was muffled through the wood, but I could still hear the concern in it—or rather, the perfect imitation of concern.
I took a deep breath, schooling my expression before I opened the door. Damon stood there, his dark hair slightly damp, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar.
Are you alright?" he asked, his brow furrowed. "You have been shut in here all evening."
"I am alright," I lied, forcing a small smile. "I am just tired."
He took another step closer to me and stroked my hair. “You know I am here for you, you don’t have to bear your pain alone.” He then raised my chin. “You look so pale.”
I swallowed hard. "Grief does that to people.
His hand brushed my arm, and I bit back the urge to flinch. "Again, you don't have to go through it alone," he said softly.
The words were meant to comfort, but they only caused my skin to crawl. How many times did you say something similar before you killed me, Damon?
"Thanks," I muttered, stepping back. "I think I just need some sleep.”
He hesitated, his gaze lingering on me before he nodded. "All right. If you need anything, I am at your service.”
He smiled and stood up to leave. As soon as he shut the door, I heaved a sigh of relief. I need to move fast; I cannot continue to pretend like this.
Later that night, I sneaked out of my room with the folder firmly held beneath my arm, and then I went to find Charles Hawthorne to have a talk with him. I had to. Resorting to calling him would not work if I was in the house because everyone would hear and see me there.
Although the storm had cut the power supply, the halls were pitch dark, except for the intermittent flashes of lightning. I made my way fast along the hall, not making a sound because the carpet was quite thick. My destination was the library. The only line that could not be spied on was the one there—well, at least it hadn't been yet.
The library welcomed me with the quiet noise of the door that I gently closed behind me. The room's scent was a mix of old leather and polished wood, which was slightly relaxing and familiar. I put the folder on the desk and picked up the telephone.
As soon as I dialed the first number, a voice unexpectedly broke the silence.
“Midnight studying?”
I stopped, midway to the receiver, frozen in fear. Glancing slowly toward the doorway, I saw Clarissa standing there, holding a candle in her hands, whose light was flickering and dancing over her face, across the dark.
“Couldn't sleep,” I responded, keeping my calm as much as I could.
With every step she took, the candlelight flickered across her green eyes, emitting a cold brilliance in the dark room. “I can imagine, especially with Jonathan’s burial being tomorrow. Were you looking for something? I can help.” She offered
“No,” I lied. “I just… miss Jonathan.”
Her expression softened, and she crossed the room, putting the candle on the desk. "We all do, darling," she said, her tone warm but her eyes calculating. "He was such a bright light in this family."
I forced myself to nod, keeping my gaze on the folder.
"What's that?" she asked, gesturing to it.
Just some documents I happened to find in his bedroom," I said, my heartbeat getting faster
Her hand hovered over the folder, her manicured nails grazing the edge. "Mind if I take a look?"
“Well, these are just old documents,” I replied as I quickly pulled the folder away from her without letting her open it.
"Nothing significant.
Her eyes caught mine, and for an instant, I thought she would push the issue. But then she smiled, a keen curve of her lips that ran chills down my spine.
"Of course," she said smoothly. "I understand how precious Jonathan's belongings must feel to you right now."
I nodded, clutching the folder tightly.
Turning for the door, Clarissa paused and faced me. "You know, Elara," she said, her voice light, yet not quite, "grief can make people paranoid. You must take good care of yourself."
I'll keep that in mind," I answered softer than a whisper.
She left, and I practically collapsed into the chair, shaking.
*****
By the time I got to Charles Hawthorn's office two days after Jonathan’s burial, I was coming completely unglued. The folder was heavy in my bag, the piece of evidence that could pull apart everything.
Charles raised his head as I walked in, his brows wrinkled with worry. "Elara," he said, standing up from his desk. "You are. tense."
"I want to talk to you," I said, shutting the door behind me.
He motioned me to sit down, and I placed the folder on his desk. "I found these in Jonathan’s study," I answered. My voice vibrated. "He was doing something when it happened. “I do not think thieves killed him."
Charles's face had a serious look as he opened the file. His eyes passed over the papers very slowly, and his jaw tightened.
“This is serious.” His tone was serious. "If what is written here is factual, then your family is in danger."
"It's worse than that," I said. "Clarissa and Damon are working together. They killed Jonathan, and I think they're planning to—"
I stopped, my throat constricting.
They already did. I thought. They killed me too.
Charles nodded solemnly, his face white.
"We'll need more evidence before we can take this to the authorities. If we move too soon—"
In an instant, the sound of a loud crash came from outside the office interrupted us. We froze, our eyes locked upon each other. Charles rose and went to the door, peering through the frosted glass.
"What is it?" I whispered.
“I don't know,” he uttered, with a low voice. “Stay here.”
He moved into the hallway, and I plastered myself against the wall, my heart racing like a runaway train.
Moments later, a scream ripped through the atmosphere.
"Charles!" I shouted, running to the door.
Besides my own, all of the other apartment doors in the hallway were shut, and the only noise was the sound of feet fleeing down the stairs. I came out, my breath in short puffs, my eyes looking around.
Then I noticed Charles lying motionless on the floor, blood collecting beneath him.
I slammed a hand over my mouth, stifling a cry of agony. They did this
This was not a warning; it was a declaration of war.
