The Note

Elena left the nursing home with the sound of a phantom baby’s cry echoing in her skull. She sat in Julian's Range Rover, the leather seats smelling of his cologne—sandalwood and denial. She pulled the diary from her coat pocket. Mrs. Gable hadn't remembered where Sebastian went, but she had remembered something else. *The doctor.*

Dr. Evans. The family physician who had signed the death certificate. The man who had been prescribing Elena sedatives she hadn't asked for.

She opened the diary. The pages were brittle, the ink faded to a rusty brown. It wasn't Victoria's handwriting. It was cramped, hurried. A servant’s hand.

*Nov 14, 1996: Madam is screaming. Not in pain. In anger. The baby looks like him. Like Thomas.*

*Nov 16, 1996: They took the baby to the attic. Told the staff he was stillborn. But I hear him. Through the vents.*

*Nov 18, 1996: I tried to bring him milk. Mr. Arthur stopped me. He said the baby is sick. He said feeding him will only prolong the suffering.*

Elena’s hand trembled. Prolong the suffering. They weren't just hiding him. They were waiting for him to die.

*Nov 20, 1996: The crying stopped. I think he is gone. God forgive us.*

*Nov 21, 1996: The locksmith came. To the cottage. Why lock an empty room? Unless he isn't dead.*

Elena flipped the page. The next entry was dated a month later.

*Dec 25, 1996: I saw him. In the cottage window. A face. A little boy. But his eyes... they were empty. Like he had gone away inside his head.*

She kept reading. Years of entries. Glimpses of a shadow life.

*1999: He draws on the walls. Charcoal. He draws faces. They all look like Thomas.*

*2001: Julian saw him today. Through the fence. He asked who the boy was. Madam said it was a monster.*

*2005: Dr. Evans comes every Tuesday. He brings the needles. To keep him calm.*

Needles.

Elena looked up at the grey sky. They had drugged him. For thirty years. To keep him compliant. To keep him quiet.

But there was one entry, tucked near the back, that made her breath hitch.

*June 12, 2014: The wedding. Elena looked beautiful. She doesn't know. She doesn't know her money paid for the new fence. The electric one.*

Elena closed the book. She pressed her forehead against the steering wheel. Her dowry. Her inheritance. It had paid for the cage.

She wasn't just a victim. She was the financier.

Her phone buzzed. Not the burner. Julian’s phone, which she had forgotten was in the cup holder.

It was a text message. From an unknown number.

*I know you have the diary. Bring it to the old mill. Or the police get the gun.*

The gun. The one Arthur claimed she had. The one she didn't have.

But if they planted one...

She typed back. *Who is this?*

The reply was instant.

*Someone who wants to see Victoria burn.*

Elena stared at the screen. An ally? Or another trap?

She started the car. The old mill was on the edge of the property, a ruin from the 1800s. It was secluded. Dangerous.

Perfect for a meeting. Or a murder.

She drove fast, the tires spinning on the wet gravel. She didn't care about the mud. She didn't care about the car. She cared about the truth.

She reached the mill. It was a skeleton of stone against the grey sky. She parked and got out, the diary tucked into her waistband. She held the silver rattle in her hand, a talisman.

"Hello?" she called out.

A figure stepped out from the shadows of the water wheel. He was wearing a hood, his face obscured.

"You came," he said. The voice was familiar. Raspy.

He pulled back the hood.

It wasn't Arthur. It wasn't Julian.

It was the waiter from the gala. The terrified boy.

"Who are you?" Elena asked.

"My name is Thomas," the boy said.

Elena frowned. "Thomas died in 1996."

"My father died in 1996," the boy said. He stepped closer. His eyes were green. St. Clair green. "I'm his son. And Sebastian is my brother."

Elena looked at him. He couldn't be more than twenty.

"Thomas had a son?"

"With Mrs. Vance," the boy said. "She was the maid then. Before she was the housekeeper."

Mrs. Vance. The woman who had given her the key. The woman who had told her about the clothes.

"She stayed," Elena whispered. "She stayed in that house for thirty years. Why?"

"To protect Sebastian," the boy said. "And to wait. For you."

He reached into his pocket. He pulled out a folded piece of paper.

"She found this in Victoria's desk. It's not a diary entry. It's a letter. To the doctor."

Elena took the paper.

*Dr. Evans,*

*The situation is deteriorating. The asset is becoming violent. The current dosage is insufficient. We need a permanent solution.*

*Authorize the final injection.*

*V.*

The date on the letter was yesterday.

"They're going to kill him," the boy said. "Tonight."

"Where?"

"The cottage," he said. "They moved him back. After the fire."

"What fire?"

"The one they set to cover the evidence," he said. "But the fire didn't burn everything."

He pointed to the diary in Elena's hand.

"That book," he said. "It has the proof. But it also has something else."

"What?"

"The last entry," he said. "Read it."

Elena opened the book to the very last page. It was written in a different hand. Shaky. Weak.

*She hates him. She hates that he looks like Thomas.*