Chapter 2: Shadows in the Study
The heavy oak doors of the mansion closed behind us, shutting out the biting wind and the surreal nightmare of the cemetery. I carried Clara up the grand staircase, ignoring the way my wet shoes stained the imported Persian runner. Her body felt light, almost fragile, like she might dissolve if I held her too tightly. Dr. Sterling was already waiting in the upstairs hallway, his black medical bag clutched in his hand, a look of strained professionalism plastered across his face.
"Mr. Vance, this is highly irregular," Sterling muttered, stepping into our path as I approached the master suite. "The exhaustion, the trauma of the service—she needs a professional clinic, not a drafty estate."
"Get out," I said, my voice dropping into a register that made the doctor hesitate. I didn't yell; I didn't have the energy for theatrics. But the cold certainty in my tone left no room for debate. "You certified her death, Sterling. You signed the papers that put my daughter in a wooden box before her heart even stopped racing. You aren't touching her again."
Sterling’s eyes flicked down the hallway toward the staircase, where Brenda was just coming up, her breathing shallow and her expression hard. "Brenda, tell him—"
"Arthur," Brenda interrupted, her voice tight, every syllable measured. "You are overwrought. Grief makes men delusional. Clara passed away at Saint Jude’s. Whatever you think you saw in that hole is just hysteria playing tricks on your eyes."
"My eyes work just fine, Brenda," I said, easing Clara down onto the sofa in my private study and locking the heavy door behind us before Sterling could push his way in.
I turned back to Clara, who was curled on the leather couch, pulling a woolen throw blanket around her shoulders. Her eyes were wide, the shock beginning to recede, replaced by a cold, sharp lucidity.
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"They didn't bury me, Dad," Clara whispered, staring at her own trembling hands. "They gave me something. A slow-release paralytic. I was awake the whole time. I could hear you talking in the hospital room, but I couldn't move a muscle. Brenda and Sterling... they stood right beside my bed and talked about the estate transfer."
My blood ran cold. The implications settled over me like lead. I walked over to the mahogany desk, pulled open the hidden side drawer, and reached for the combination dial of the wall safe behind the oil painting. If Clara's words were true, the nightmare was only beginning.
