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Chapter Six: Whispers from the Shadows
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2026-01-25 20:49:57The hospital discharged Lucas two weeks after the crash. He came home in a wheelchair, ribs still taped, face bruised but eyes sharp. The house felt smaller with him in it.
I avoided the garage after that night. The brake fluid bottle and the note stayed hidden in the back of my closet, wrapped in an old sweater. I told myself I’d burn them. Instead, I started noticing things. A silver hairpin missing from my dresser. My favorite scarf gone from the closet. Small things I’d mentioned in passing to Mrs. Thorne. Then, one morning, I found a photo of Anna tucked under my pillow. The same photo from the mantel. Someone had drawn a red X over her face. I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I found Mrs. Thorne in the kitchen, peeling potatoes. The room smelled of earth and herbs, a false comfort. “Mrs. Thorne,” I said, voice low. “We need to talk.” She glanced up, knife pausing. “What’s on your mind, dear?” I pulled the photo from my pocket, laid it on the counter. “This was under my pillow. And things are missing from my room. A hairpin. A scarf.” Her face paled. She wiped her hands on her apron, eyes darting to the door. “You shouldn’t have that.” “Who put it there? And why the X?” She sighed, heavy and tired. “Anna’s accident… it wasn’t just brakes failing. Things went missing before then too. Her keys. A necklace. Small warnings, like breadcrumbs leading to something awful.” I leaned closer. “What kind of warnings? Who would do that?” She shook her head. “I don’t know. But it started after the family business deals went sour. Rivals, maybe. Or someone inside. Drop it, Elena. Please. I’ve seen what happens when people poke too hard.” “But Lucas’s crash, it’s the same. Someone tampered with the brakes. I found a bottle in the garage—” “Stop!” She grabbed my arm, fingers digging in. “Don’t say it out loud. The walls have ears. If Alex finds out you’re digging into Anna’s death… he’ll make your life hell. He already hates you enough.” I pulled away. “He blames me for everything. Why?” “Because hating you is easier than facing the truth. Anna was his world. Losing her broke him. Now Lucas… it’s stirring it all up again.” She turned back to the potatoes, knife slicing with force. “Promise me you’ll let it go. For your sake.” I didn’t promise. I couldn’t. That afternoon, Alex found me in the library. He stood in the doorway, arms crossed, suit rumpled from the office. “You’ve been asking questions,” he said, voice like gravel. I closed the book I wasn’t reading. “What questions?” “Don’t play innocent. Mrs. Thorne. Lucas. They told me you’re prying into Anna’s accident. Missing items. Clues.” I stood, heart pounding. “I’m not prying. Things are happening. Someone put a photo of Anna in my room with her face crossed out.” His eyes darkened. “Show me.” I did. He stared at it, jaw tight. “This is a warning,” I said. “For me. Or for all of us.” He crumpled the photo, threw it in the trash. “It’s nothing. A prank. But if I find out you’re looking for more clues,talking to staff or sneaking around, I’ll make you regret it. You think I hate you now? Keep pushing, and you’ll see what real hate looks like.” “Why? What are you hiding?” He stepped close, breath hot on my face. “I’m protecting my family. You’re not family. You’re an intruder. Stay in your lane, or I’ll lock you in a room until you learn.” He stormed out. The door slammed. His hatred had sharpened, like a blade honed overnight. Meals were silent. He barely looked at me. The house felt colder. But I couldn’t stop. The past was bleeding into the present, and I was the one getting stained.
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The hospital discharged Lucas two weeks after the crash. He came home in a wheelchair, ribs still taped, face bruised but eyes sharp. The house felt smaller with him in it.I avoided the garage after that night. The brake fluid bottle and the note stayed hidden in the back of my closet, wrapped in an old sweater. I told myself I’d burn them.Instead, I started noticing things.A silver hairpin missing from my dresser. My favorite scarf gone from the closet. Small things I’d mentioned in passing to Mrs. Thorne. Then, one morning, I found a photo of Anna tucked under my pillow. The same photo from the mantel. Someone had drawn a red X over her face.I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I found Mrs. Thorne in the kitchen, peeling potatoes. The room smelled of earth and herbs, a false comfort.“Mrs. Thorne,” I said, voice low. “We need to talk.”She glanced up, knife pausing. “What’s on your mind, dear?”I pulled the photo from my pocket, laid it on the counter. “This was under my pillow.
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