2025-04-22 06:19:14The weight of what Damien said in the chapel clung to Clara’s skin like a second shadow. The photograph of her mother — smiling that night, before her life was snuffed out — felt like a stranger's memory now. The pieces of her past were no longer fitting into the neat puzzle her father had built for her. They scattered like broken glass, sharp enough to bleed.
Clara didn’t sleep that night. She sat by the window of her room, the town’s lights flickering in the distance, crickets whispering secrets in the dark. She held the photo so tightly the edges bent, but she couldn’t let go. What if Damien was right? What if everything she believed about her mother’s death was a story fabricated to keep her quiet? And what if the lies were deeper than even Damien suspected? The memory of his voice haunted her — low, bitter, edged with something old and raw. She couldn’t decide if he was a villain, a victim, or something worse. The clock struck 3:17 AM when her phone buzzed. Unknown number. “You shouldn’t have come.” The text was there, sitting on her screen like a death sentence. No name, no number — just those five words. Her pulse spiked. She grabbed her phone and typed a reply, fingers trembling. “Who is this?” No response. She stared at the screen until the light dimmed and the shadows in her room seemed to move. The message wasn’t a prank — she could feel it. Whoever sent it knew about the chapel, about Damien, about her. And they were watching. ------------------------------------------------ By morning, Clara was in a fog. Her father’s face at breakfast was too calm, too practiced. He buttered his toast, sipped his coffee, and read the paper like nothing in the world could disturb the peace of Hollow Creek. But Clara knew better now. “Dad,” she said carefully, breaking the silence. He looked up. “Hmm?” She swallowed hard. “Do you remember that night? When Mom… died?” His hand stiffened around the coffee cup. A beat too long. “Why are you asking about that now?” His voice was steady, but there was a flicker in his eyes — a momentary lapse. “I was just… remembering. I wish I could remember more.” Her father set the cup down. “That night was hard for all of us. There’s no good in digging up what’s buried, Clara.” Buried. The word hit her like a stone. “Sometimes,” she said softly, “what’s buried doesn’t stay buried.” Their eyes locked. For a moment she thought she saw fear. Or was it guilt? “I have to go,” he muttered, standing too quickly, grabbing his briefcase and car keys. “We’ll talk later.” But she knew they wouldn’t. ** The old library on Maple Street had been closed for years, but Clara remembered the hidden side door that used to stick just enough for a determined teenager to slip through. It was one of the last places in town untouched by surveillance, unclaimed by her father’s influence. She met Tommy there by noon. He looked as worn as she felt. “I got your message,” he said, pushing open the rusted door. “You okay?” Clara shook her head. “No. And it’s getting worse.” Inside, the air was thick with dust and forgotten stories. Shelves sagged under the weight of old records and books too old for the public library. The kind of place her mother would’ve loved — quiet, filled with secrets. “I got a text,” she whispered, glancing around. “Middle of the night. No number. Said I shouldn’t have come.” Tommy’s face darkened. “It’s starting.” “What is?” “The town protects its own. When someone stirs the past, the past pushes back.” He crouched near an old filing cabinet, tugging it open. “I did some digging too. Remember what Damien said about the photograph?” Clara nodded. “Well,” Tommy continued, pulling out a thin, dust-covered folder. “I found this.” He handed it to her. Inside were newspaper clippings, old police reports, and a faded copy of her mother’s autopsy. Except — there was a name on the last page Clara had never seen before. L.C. Her breath hitched. “That’s what was in my father’s journal. June 13th, 2004. ‘L.C. agrees.’ Who the hell is L.C.?” “I think I know.” Tommy hesitated, his throat working around the words. “Luther Creed.” Clara’s blood ran cold. “Damien’s father?” Tommy nodded. “Your dad’s oldest friend. Business partner. They practically built this town together. If anyone could cover up a murder, it’d be them.” Clara sat back hard against the wall, the room spinning. “But Luther’s dead,” she whispered. “Isn’t he?” Tommy met her eyes. “That’s what they want you to think.” ------------------------------------------------ The evening air was heavy with the scent of rain when Clara drove back toward the chapel ruins. She knew it was reckless. She knew she was risking everything — her safety, her sanity. But something pulled her there. A compulsion she couldn’t fight. She parked a safe distance away, the car hidden by the overgrowth. Her flashlight cut through the thickening fog, the beams catching on twisted stone and broken glass. And then she saw him — Damien. He stood where the altar used to be, a lone figure in the mist, waiting. “You shouldn’t have come,” he said, echoing the message from the night before. “I had to.” She approached him slowly, her heart hammering in her chest. “Who sent the text?” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. They’re watching us. They know you have the journal.” Clara clutched her bag tighter. “I found something,” she told him. “L.C. Luther Creed. Tommy thinks he’s alive.” For the first time, Damien’s cool mask cracked. “That’s impossible.” “Is it?” She stepped closer. “Or have we both been chasing the wrong ghosts?” Damien swore under his breath. “If he’s alive… it changes everything.” A branch cracked in the distance. Both their heads snapped toward the sound. Footsteps. More than one. Damien grabbed Clara’s arm. “We have to go. Now.” But before they could move, a voice cut through the fog. “I wouldn’t run if I were you.” A man stepped into view. Tall. Dressed in black. His face was familiar, though time had grayed his hair and sharpened his features. Clara’s stomach dropped. “Dad?” she gasped. Her father stared back at her, his expression cold and foreign. Not the man she knew. Not the man who tucked her in at night, who spoke of integrity and family. “I told you, Clara,” he said softly, voice like gravel. “Some things are better left buried.”
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CHAPTER 50 — Beneath the Cracks
The storm had passed in the night, but the morning carried its ghost. The air was heavy, damp, and cold enough to seep into the bones, as though the rain had left behind a residue of unease. Clara sat by her bedroom window, staring at the street below where puddles reflected a dull, overcast sky. She had not slept—sleep had become an elusive luxury, replaced by the constant hum of thoughts circling her like restless crows.Damien’s words from the night before still haunted her."You’re not ready for the truth yet."He had said it with the sort of finality that made her wonder if knowing would kill her faster than ignorance.But Clara was past the point of retreat. She had followed too many shadows, peeled back too many lies. The mystery of her mother’s disappearance, the whispers about her own name, and the feeling that something in this town was constantly watching her—all of it had piled into an unbearable weight.Her phone buzzed, startling her from her thoughts.Unknown Number: Th
Chapter 49 – The Weight of Silence
The storm outside had eased to a ghostly drizzle, but the air inside Damien Creed’s study was anything but calm. Shadows stretched long over the Persian rug, warped by the flicker of the lone desk lamp. Clara sat on the leather armchair opposite him, her posture taut, hands clasped in her lap like she was holding herself together by sheer force.For the first time since the night began, Damien was not speaking—only watching her. There was something almost unbearable about the weight of his gaze; it pinned her in place, searching, stripping away every mask she had carefully learned to wear.“You agreed too quickly,” he finally said, his voice low but cutting through the silence like the edge of a knife.Her pulse quickened. “You wanted an answer. I gave one.”His lips curved—not quite a smile, more like a test. “I wanted the truth. There’s a difference.”Clara held his gaze, though her instinct told her to look away. “The truth is… I don’t have the luxury to say no.”The admission sat
Chapter 48 – A Truth That Burns
The rain had not stopped since the night before, and now it fell in a steady, mournful sheet against the windows of the Creed estate. Clara sat at the edge of Damien’s desk, her fingers curled around the edge of the polished wood, her pulse loud in her ears. Every tick of the grandfather clock in the corner seemed to stretch time, making the air between them heavy with things unsaid.Damien stood by the window, shoulders squared but his hand clenched around a glass of untouched whiskey. His gaze was fixed on the storm outside, but she knew he wasn’t watching the rain — he was hiding in it.“You have to tell me what’s going on,” Clara said at last, her voice low but unyielding. “I’m not walking blind into whatever you’re planning. I can’t.”His jaw tightened, but he didn’t turn. “Some truths don’t just cut,” he murmured, “they take pieces of you when they come out.”She rose from the desk and moved toward him, her bare feet silent on the hardwood. “Then let them take pieces of me, Dami
Chapter 47 – Midnight Debt
The old Wynthorne chapel looked dead.It sat hunched against the wind like it had been forgotten by the town decades ago — its stone walls mottled with age, the bell tower leaning just enough to make Clara wonder if it would survive the winter. The stained-glass windows were black now, no candlelight behind them, just patches of ice creeping along their edges.She stood across the street, breath ghosting in the cold, staring at the building. The air was sharp enough to cut. Every part of her wanted to turn around, to walk back to the relative safety of her apartment and pretend Damien Creed had never given her this address. But she’d been pretending for too long.The clock on the corner store read 11:58 p.m.She crossed the street.The snow crunched under her boots, muffling her approach, but her pulse was still loud in her ears. She gripped the edge of her coat tighter, her other hand brushing the folded letter in her pocket — the one her mother had written to Damien, the one that st
Chapter 46 – Beneath the Quiet
The night was no longer silent.It looked silent, yes—the streets of Wynthorne lay under the sleepy hush of winter, every lamppost casting a hazy halo against the drifting snow—but under that quiet, Clara could hear the echo of footsteps. Steady, deliberate, and far too familiar.She didn’t turn. Not yet. She’d learned long ago that turning too quickly could make you prey.Her breath rose in clouds before her, a fragile mist that felt too loud in the emptiness. Somewhere behind her, Damien was following. She didn’t need to see him to know. She could feel him—the weight of his presence was heavier than the snow pressing against the rooftops.She’d left the Creed manor hours ago, after their last argument had ended not in resolution but in dangerous silence. Words had been too sharp, too unsteady, and she had chosen to leave before either of them said something they couldn’t undo. She had walked aimlessly at first, letting her boots carve winding paths through the snow, until she found
Chapter 45 – The Shadows Between Truth and Lie
The room felt smaller than it truly was, as if the walls had crept inward while Damien spoke. His voice had not risen, but each word had the sharp, deliberate weight of a man who had learned the price of silence and would pay no more.Clara stood by the window, her reflection barely holding its shape against the rain-streaked glass. Outside, the downpour washed the streets clean of footprints, yet inside, the ghosts between them refused to leave.“You kept it from me,” Damien said finally, his tone a low tide, deceptively calm yet charged with an undertow that could pull her under. “All this time, Clara. You knew… and you stayed quiet.”Her lips parted, but the answer tangled in her throat. The truth had teeth; if she spoke, it would bite both of them.“I was trying to protect you,” she whispered, her voice almost drowned by the hiss of rain. “If I had told you then… it would have destroyed you.”A bitter laugh escaped Damien—not cruel, but wounded, like a splinter of glass pressed ag
