Chapter 108 - The Caretaker's Cottage
The rear door of the cottage was unlocked, resting against the jamb with the latch broken. Inside, the air smelled of damp earth, old paper, and lavender soap.
I moved through the narrow kitchen with my weapon raised, stepping softly on the warped pine floorboards to prevent any creaking. The cottage was sparsely furnished—a simple iron cot, an oak table covered in stacks of handwritten journals, and an old sewing machine in the corner.
Sitting at the table with her back to me was the woman from the photograph.
Her shoulders were bowed, her hands resting flat on the wood. She didn't turn when I stepped through the doorway, but her reflection in the small window pane caught my eye.
"You took your time, David," she said quietly.
Her voice hit me like an electric shock. It was Clara. Older, thinner, her face marked by lines that hadn't been there when we were twenty-five, but the cadence was unmistakable.
"Clara?" My voice was barely a whisper. The gun in my hand dropped an inch. "Is it really you?"
She turned slowly on the wooden chair. Her dark eyes, the exact shade of Emma’s, were brimming with unshed tears. But there was something wrong. There was no joy in her expression, no relief. Only a terrible, bone-deep sorrow.
"I told Beatrice you'd come," Clara said, her voice shaking. "I told her that no matter how many times you were knocked down, you’d always come back for Emma."
"I have Emma," I said, taking an instinctive step toward her. "She’s outside. She’s safe. Clara, what did they do to you? Why didn't you reach out? Why didn't you fight them?"
"Fight them?" Clara let out a broken, hollow laugh that mirrored Chloe’s earlier mockery. She stood up, smoothing the front of her linen skirt. "David, you still don't understand what the Silver Gate family is, do you? You think you were the only one who got canceled?"
Before I could answer, the door behind me swung shut with a heavy, metallic thud.
The sharp click of an assault rifle being cocked echoed through the small room. Standing in the connecting hallway was Chloe, dressed in a sharp black blazer, flanked by two private security contractors in tactical gear.
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"Touching reunion," Chloe said, stepping forward with a smirk that dripped with malice. "Did you really think Arthur left his private network unmonitored? I tracked that laptop the second you bypassed the firewall in Columbia."
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