Chapter 4: Chapter 4 — The Woman in the Mist

The door opened slowly.
A thin line of candlelight appeared beneath it.
Clara could hear her own heartbeat.
Then a woman's hand appeared around the edge.
Pale.
Trembling.
Familiar.
Julian stepped in front of Clara.
"Don't."
The door opened wider.
A woman stood in the passage.
Her hair was streaked with silver, her face thinner than Clara remembered, but her eyes—
Those eyes were unmistakable.
Clara's knees nearly gave way.
"Mother?"
The woman looked at her.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then she whispered,
"Clara."
Clara rushed forward.
Julian caught her arm.
"Wait."
She pulled away.
"That's my mother!"
"Your mother died twelve years ago."
The woman flinched.
"I know what you were told."
Clara stared at her.
"You were buried."
"I know."
"I saw your coffin."
"I know."
"You were dead."
The woman shook her head.
"No."
Clara felt the world tilt beneath her.
"Then where have you been?"
The woman looked toward the hidden room.
"Waiting."
"For what?"
"For the truth to become safer than the lie."
Julian's expression hardened.
"You shouldn't have come here."
The woman looked at him.
"You were always protective of her."
"I promised."
"To whom?"
Julian said nothing.
Clara looked between them.
"You two know more than you're telling me."
Her mother lowered her eyes.
"Yes."
"Then start talking."
The woman stepped into the room.
Her name was Eleanor Vale.
Clara remembered her mother as elegant and warm, always wearing lavender perfume and soft wool dresses.
This woman looked like someone who had spent twelve years running from ghosts.
"I didn't kill your father," Eleanor said.
"I never thought you did."
"You should have."
Clara frowned.
"Why?"
"Because everyone else did."
She walked to the desk and touched the old papers.
"Your father was involved with people who were dangerous."
"Who?"
"Investors. Politicians. Men who wanted Blackthorn."
Clara looked around.
"This house?"
"Not the house."
Eleanor picked up an old ledger.
"The land."
She opened it.
"Your father discovered that valuable deposits existed beneath the western fields. He planned to sell the rights secretly."
Julian added, "But he wasn't working alone."
Eleanor nodded.
"He was laundering money through the estate."
Clara stared at the documents.
"So why was he murdered?"
"Because he threatened to expose the people behind him."
"Who?"
Eleanor's face tightened.
"I don't know."
Julian interrupted.
"That's not true."
Eleanor looked at him.
"You know who it was?"
"I know who your husband feared."
Clara turned toward Julian.
"Who?"
He hesitated.
Then he said a name.
"Edmund Harrow."
Clara's face went blank.
She knew that name.
Everyone in the county did.
Edmund Harrow had owned half the surrounding land. He had been her father's closest business associate.
And he had died—
"Twenty years ago," Clara whispered.
Julian nodded.
"That's what everyone believes."
Her mother shook her head.
"He didn't die."
Clara stared at her.
"Then why was there a funeral?"
"Because someone else was buried."
Silence filled the room.
Clara felt sick.
"My entire life..."
"Was built around a lie," Eleanor said quietly.
A gust of wind moved through the passage.
The candle flame danced.
Then Clara noticed something on the desk.
A photograph.
She picked it up.
It showed four people standing in front of Blackthorn Estate.
Her father.
Her mother.
Julian.
And Edmund Harrow.
But there was something strange.
On the back of the photograph was a date.
October 17, 2003.
Clara stared.
"That's the night Father died."
Julian nodded.
"And look at the photograph."
She turned it over.
Written beneath the date were six words:
One of us will not survive.
Clara looked at her mother.
"Who wrote this?"
Eleanor didn't answer.
Julian did.
"Your father."
Clara slowly lowered the photograph.
"Then he knew."
"He knew someone was coming for him," Julian said.
"Did he know who?"
Eleanor's eyes filled with tears.
"Yes."
Clara waited.
Finally her mother whispered,
"He knew it was Edmund."
A loud crash echoed from upstairs.
All three froze.
Someone was inside the house.
Eleanor extinguished the candle.
Julian whispered,
"We're not alone."
Another crash.
Then footsteps.
Heavy footsteps crossing the entrance hall.
Clara looked at her mother.
"You said Edmund was alive."
Eleanor nodded.
"Yes."
"Where is he?"
Her mother looked toward the ceiling.
"Here."
Clara's heart stopped.
"What?"
Eleanor took her hand.
"He has been watching this house for years."
The footsteps above stopped.
Then came three slow knocks against the floor.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
Exactly like before.
Eleanor whispered,
"He's finally decided to come home."

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