Chapter 4 - The Caretaker’s Confession
Arthur’s words hung in the chilly afternoon air, sending a shiver straight down my spine.
“You know my mother?” I asked, taking a cautious step forward.
Arthur let out a dry, hacking laugh that dissolved into a cough. “Know her? I helped raise her, girl. And I watched her turn this house into a prison long before you were ever a glint in her eye. Come inside before the cold gets into my bones. If you want answers, I suppose it’s time someone finally paid the piper.”
He hobbled back toward the open side door, gesturing for me to follow. Hesitating for only a second, I stepped over the threshold into Blackwood Manor.
The interior smelled of old paper, lavender, and time standing still. Arthur led me through a maze of dimly lit corridors until we reached a small, cluttered study at the back of the house. A single oil lamp flickered on a mahogany desk, casting long, dancing shadows across walls lined with leather-bound books.
Arthur sank into a worn velvet armchair with a sigh of relief and motioned for me to sit across from him.
“Your mother told you this place was sold, didn’t she?” Arthur asked, his cloudy eyes fixing on mine. “Said the family went bankrupt, lost everything to pay off debts?”
“Yes,” I replied, gripping the arms of my chair. “All my life, she talked about how hard things were, how she had to scrimp and save to give us a future.”
Arthur shook his head slowly, a bitter smile touching his lips. “A lie. A convenient, polished lie. Eleanor didn’t lose this house. She stole it.”
My stomach churned. “Stole it? From whom?”
“From your grandmother, Beatrice,” Arthur said, leaning forward. “Beatrice was a wealthy woman, but she was aging, and her mind began to wander. Your mother saw an opportunity. She isolated Beatrice from her friends, forged documents while your grandmother’s health failed, and signed the entire estate over to herself. When I threatened to go to the authorities, she threatened something far worse.”
He paused, a shadow of genuine fear crossing his weathered face.
“She threatened to take my daughter away from me,” Arthur whispered. “She has a way of finding people’s deepest, most vulnerable weaknesses and twisting them until you’ll do whatever she says just to keep your loved ones safe. Sound familiar?”
The blood rushed in my ears. The exact same tactic she had used on Emily. “Remember the rule, little bird. Speak of this, and the cage locks forever.”
“Is there proof?” I demanded, leaning forward. “Documents? Anything that can prove what she did?”
Arthur pointed a trembling finger toward a heavy iron safe tucked in the corner of the room, half-hidden behind a velvet drape. “It’s all in there. Deeds, medical records showing Beatrice’s state of mind, and letters in Eleanor’s own handwriting detailing the scheme. But the safe requires a mechanical combination and a physical key. A key your mother keeps locked away in her private safe at home.”
“I’ll find a way to get it,” I said, determination surging through my veins.
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“Be careful, Clara,” Arthur warned, his hand shooting out to grab my wrist with surprising strength. “Your mother isn't just cruel; she’s calculating. She has powerful friends in the city council, judges who owe her favors, and police officers who think she’s a saint. If you strike and miss, she will destroy you.”
“She already tried to destroy my daughter,” I replied coldly, pulling my wrist away gently. “That’s a war she’s already lost.”
