Chapter 12 - Whispers in the Garden
The morning sun cast long, distorted shadows across the overgrown path leading to the old greenhouse—the one place the demolition crew hadn't yet touched. Clara walked slowly, holding a basket of fresh vegetables, her eyes scanning the broken glass panels of the vaulted roof.
Since the night of the fire, a strange peace had settled over her and Lily. Damian had provided them with security, safe employment, and a quiet anonymity that Clara had spent her entire life praying for. Yet, over the last week, the hairs on the back of her neck had refused to lie flat.
She felt eyes on her.
"Hello?" Clara called out, her voice echoing softly against the cracked concrete of the greenhouse floor.
No one answered. Only the rustle of dry ivy stirred in the breeze.
She turned to leave, but froze. Standing directly in the narrow doorway was a man she had never seen before. He wore an immaculate charcoal-grey wool overcoat, completely out of place in the rustic debris of the estate. Silver hair framed a face carved from granite, and cold, pale blue eyes stared at her with an unsettling intensity.
"You must be Clara," the man said. His voice was smooth, cultured, carrying the effortless authority of someone accustomed to owning rooms the moment he entered them.
Clara instinctively stepped back, tightening her grip on the basket handle. "Who are you? You shouldn't be here. Private property—"
"Property," the man chuckled softly, stepping closer. The air around him seemed to drop ten degrees. "My dear, every stone, every brick, and every square inch of this dirt belonged to my family long before Damian Vane’s father ever learned how to hold a gun."
"I'm calling Mr. Vane," Clara said, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Victor Thorne raised a gloved hand, stopping her in her tracks. "Don't bother the boy. He's busy chasing phantoms I left behind. Tell me... did little Lily ever finish her drawing? The one of the bad man?"
Clara’s blood ran cold. She hadn't told anyone outside of Damian about the specifics of that drawing. How did this stranger know?
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"She draws flowers now," Clara lied, her voice shaking despite her best efforts to keep it steady.
Victor smiled, a thin, humourless line that didn't reach his eyes. "Good. Because the real monsters don't hide in doorways anymore, Clara. They come through the front gate."
