Chapter 13

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Chapter 13: Ashes from the sand

The morning arrived cold and still, the kind of silence that presses against the skin and settles deep in the bones. Isla moved through the quiet house like a ghost—her footsteps muffled, her breath shallow. The letter from last night lay heavy on her mind, but worse was the memory of that shadow by the trees, a silent figure watching from the dark.

She reached for the coffee, hoping the bitter warmth would anchor her, but it tasted strange—flat, like it had lost its strength along with her resolve. The walls of the house seemed to close in, shrinking the room around her, making every sound louder in the oppressive stillness.

Christopher was already there, seated at the kitchen table, staring at his laptop with a furrowed brow. He looked up as she entered.

“I called a contact,” he said, voice low. “The trust is real. It’s been in place for almost ten years, since before you even knew what it was.”

Isla frowned, pouring the coffee she didn’t want. “Why would Aurelia create something like this for me… back then? Before everything?”

Christopher shrugged. “Maybe she knew something. Something about your mother. Something she kept from you.”

Isla’s fingers tightened around the cup. “Do you think she blamed herself?”

Christopher’s gaze met hers, steady and quiet. “It’s possible. That letter sounded like a woman who’d been carrying too much for too long. If Ethan was threatening her… maybe the trust was her way of protecting you. A last defense.”

They sat in silence for a long moment, the weight of the unspoken settling between them.

Then Christopher stood abruptly. “We need to go back. To the estate.”

Isla blinked, surprise and dread warring inside her. “You mean… go there? After everything?”

He nodded. “Just for a day. If someone’s watching us here, maybe the answer lies where it all began.”

Her heart screamed no, but beneath the fear, a quiet spark of curiosity flickered to life.

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The drive to the Deveraux estate was a slow blur of bare branches and grey skies. When they arrived, Isla’s breath caught. The gates hung crooked on their hinges, the hedges tangled and wild like a forgotten garden swallowed by time.

She stepped out of the car, the chill biting through her coat. The house stood silent, its dark windows like empty eyes staring down.

The door gave way under Christopher’s hand, opening without resistance.

Inside, dust lay thick over the furniture. The air smelled of damp wood and old secrets.

Aurelia’s study was locked tight, just as they’d left it. But near the lock, fresh scratch marks marred the wood—evidence someone had tried to force their way in.

Christopher’s voice was grim. “Someone’s been here.”

They moved slowly through the rooms, the silence folding around them like a shroud. When they reached the living room, Isla froze.

On the grand piano, resting like a ghost, was a single white envelope. Her name was scrawled across it in elegant, familiar handwriting.

She took it in trembling hands and slid out the photograph inside.

It was her mother—laughing softly, seated beside Aurelia. They looked young and happy, shadows of a past Isla thought she’d forgotten.

On the back, a message: Forgive me. We chose differently. One of us survived. The other loved.

The words struck her like a blade. She sank into the velvet armchair, memories clawing their way to the surface—the warmth of her mother’s smile, the sudden void after she disappeared, the years of silence.

Christopher knelt beside her. “What do you think it means?”

Isla’s voice was barely a whisper. “They were more than friends… weren’t they?”

He nodded slowly. “And this trust—this inheritance—it’s not just money. It’s a path. A message. A warning.”

Before they could speak further, a soft creak echoed from the staircase.

They both froze.

Another creak. Then a faint shuffle.

Someone was inside the house.

Christopher grabbed the poker from the fireplace and gestured for Isla to stay close. Step by step, they ascended the narrow stairs, the air thick with the scent of smoke and something old and bitter.

At the end of the hall, Aurelia’s bedroom door stood slightly ajar.

Christopher pushed it open.

The room was empty except for one thing—a burned book lying on the bed, its edges charred and brittle, ashes scattered around it.

Isla leaned closer, eyes narrowing. The cover was mostly destroyed, but one word remained clear: Confession.

She flipped through the blackened pages, the fragile paper crumbling beneath her fingers. One page survived almost intact.

Scrawled hastily was a single line:

The one who came before you never left. She waits beneath the ashes.

A cold shiver ran down Isla’s spine.

“What does that mean?” she breathed.

Before Christopher could answer, a soft ticking noise drew their attention.

He turned toward the wardrobe—and stopped.

Behind it, a small metal box lay on the floor. Locked. And ticking.

Christopher stepped back, face pale. “We need to get out. Now.”

Isla didn’t hesitate. They fled down the stairs and out into the cold air, the house’s secrets burning behind them.

As Christopher pulled the car onto the road, Isla looked back at the fading silhouette of the estate.

“We’re caught in something much bigger,” she said quietly.

Christopher’s

jaw tightened. “Something Aurelia tried to end.”

And now…

“Someone else is trying to finish it.”

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