Chapter 6: A Dark Proposal

Evelyn pov 

The world at three years old is mostly legs, heavy doors, and the loud sound of adults talking above your head.

I was sitting on the cold hardwood floor beneath the dining table, my knees pulled into my chest. In my small hands, I clutched my stuffed bear, Barnaby. One of his button eyes was loose, dangling by a single black thread, but I held him tight against my small chest anyway. The house always felt too big, too cold, and far too quiet since Mommy and Daddy stopped coming home.

Above me, the deep, rumbling voice of Uncle Victor cut through the silence, followed by the sharp click of Aunt Beatrice’s high heels against the floorboards.

"She can't stay here another month, Victor," Beatrice said, her voice dropping into that quiet, sharp tone she used when she thought I wasn't listening. "Every time I look at her, I see her mother's eyes. It’s sickening. Besides, the lawyer called again today about the estate."

"Beatrice, calm down," Victor replied smoothly, though there was a cold edge to his words that made my tummy twist into knots. "The girl is only three. She doesn't understand anything that’s happening."

"She understands enough to cry every night!" Beatrice snapped. "And more importantly, the board is going to start asking questions if we keep her hidden in this house. As long as she’s here, she’s a legal loose end. The moment she turns eighteen, that trust fund unlocks completely. We need her gone long before anyone starts looking into the paperwork."

I hugged Barnaby tighter, hiding my nose in his worn plush ear. I didn't know what a trust fund was, or what paperwork meant, but I knew the way Aunt Beatrice’s voice sounded when she was angry. It sounded like ice snapping on the pond outside.

"Where do you expect us to put her?" Victor asked, the clink of a glass echoing from the sideboard. "We can't just drop her at a local shelter. People in town know who she is. They know who her parents were."

"Not local," Beatrice said coldly. "Saint Jude’s."

A sudden, sharp gasp echoed from the doorway leading into the kitchen.

A silver tray clattered against the wall, followed by the dull shatter of porcelain hitting the floor. Warm tea seeped across the polished wood, creeping slowly toward my shoes.

I peeked out from beneath the long lace tablecloth.

Mrs. Thompson, our old housekeeper, stood frozen in the archway. Her withered hands were pressed tightly over her mouth, her apron stained with spilled tea. Her eyes were wide with a terror so deep and raw that it made my little heart start pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Mrs. Thompson was the only person in this huge, scary house who ever held me softly. She was the one who tucked me in, who sang the quiet lullaby Mommy used to sing, and who secretly gave me sugar cubes when Aunt Beatrice wasn't looking.

"Mrs. Thompson," Victor said, his voice instantly dropping all warmth, turning dangerously quiet.

"You... you can't," Mrs. Thompson whispered, her voice trembling so hard she could barely get the words out. She stepped forward, ignoring the broken teacups beneath her shoes. "Saint Jude’s? Victor, please... that isn't a real orphanage. It’s an unverified place up in the northern hills. No inspectors go there. Children go into that place and they never come back out. She’s just a baby! She’s three years old!"

"That is quite enough," Beatrice interjected, stepping between Mrs. Thompson and the table. Her eyes narrowed into thin, cruel slits. "You are an employee in this house, Martha. You do not dictate what happens to this family’s affairs."

"She is Arthur’s daughter!" Mrs. Thompson cried out, tears spilling over her wrinkled cheeks, tracking through the deep lines of her face. "Your own brother’s child! He trusted you with her! How can you stand there and plot to erase her just to steal her inheritance?"

My throat felt tight and hot. Erase me?

I didn't want to be erased. I wanted my Mommy. I wanted my Daddy. I pressed my forehead against Barnaby’s soft head, tiny tears hot against my cheeks as I listened to the big people fighting above me.

"She doesn't belong here," Beatrice said, her tone utterly devoid of humanity. "She’s a drain on our resources and a risk to our future. Saint Jude’s takes children without asking questions, and for a very modest monthly f*e, they make sure those children are never heard from again. It's already decided."

"I’ll go to the police," Mrs. Thompson begged, dropping to her knees right there in the spilled tea, looking up at Victor with desperate, pleading eyes. "Please, Victor. Look at me. I raised you when you were a boy. Don't do this monstrous thing. If you don't want her, let me take her! I’ll pack my bags tonight. I’ll take Evelyn and we’ll go away. You can keep the money, keep the house, keep everything! Just let me have the child!"

For a second, a heavy silence fell over the room.

I held my breath under the table, hoping with every ounce of my tiny soul that Uncle Victor would say yes. I wanted to go with Mrs. Thompson. I wanted to leave this cold house and never come back.

Victor looked down at the old woman kneeling at his feet. For a fleeting second, his face softened, a shadow of hesitation passing over his dark eyes.

Then, Beatrice placed a firm, cold hand on his shoulder and leaned in, whispering something softly into his ear.

Victor’s jaw hardened. The soft light in his eyes vanished, replaced by an iron wall of cold greed.

"You aren't taking her anywhere, Martha," Victor said, his voice flat and dead. "And you aren't going to the police either."

"Victor, please—"

"Beatrice, call the driver," Victor ordered, turning his back on the crying housekeeper. "Tell him to bring the car round to the side entrance immediately. We aren't waiting until morning."

"No!" Mrs. Thompson sobbed, scrambling to her feet to reach for him.

Beatrice shoved her back violently. Mrs. Thompson stumbled, catching herself against the edge of the sideboard with a painful gasp, but she didn't stop. She looked frantically around the room, her eyes darting toward the long lace tablecloth hanging down to the floor.

She knew I was under there.

"Evelyn!" Mrs. Thompson screamed, her voice cracking with pure panic. "Run, baby! Run!"

Before I could move my tiny legs, the lace tablecloth was yanked away with a violent tear.

Bright light flooded my eyes. I shrank back, clutching Barnaby to my chest, staring up in terror.

Uncle Victor stood over me, his towering shadow blocking out the warm light of the chandelier. Behind him, Aunt Beatrice was already holding a tiny coat—my coat—and a black duffel bag stuffed with a few of my things.

"There you are, little bird," Victor murmured, his lips curving into a terrifying, hollow smile as he reached his big hands down toward me.

"Mrs. Thompson!" I squeaked, the tears finally bursting out in a loud, frightened cry as I tried to scramble backward toward the wall.

Mrs. Thompson tried to surge forward to grab me, but Beatrice slammed the heavy study door shut, locking her inside. Through the thick wood, I could hear Mrs. Thompson wildly beating her fists against the door, screaming my name over and over again.

Uncle Victor’s heavy, cold hands grabbed me under my arms and scooped me up off the floor. I kicked my small feet, crying out for my mother, hitting his chest with my tiny fists, but he didn't even flinch. He held me tight against his wool coat, suffocatingly close.

Out on the driveway, the loud, low rumble of a car engine echoed through the foggy night air. Headlights cut through the darkness, casting long, monstrous shadows across the driveway.

"Shh," Victor whispered in my ear, his breath cold against my cheek as he carried me down the front steps toward the waiting black car. "Don't cry, Evelyn. Where you're going, nobody is ever going to hear you anyway."