Chapter 21: The Garden Shadows

Eleanor’s gaze was a physical weight, pressing against my sternum. She didn't move her wheelchair, but her eyes tracked me as I retreated toward the French doors leading to the garden.

The air outside was cool and smelled of damp earth and night-blooming jasmine. I needed to find a place where the music didn't reach, where the laughter of the guests didn't sound like breaking glass.

I navigated the maze of boxwood hedges, my heels sinking slightly into the soft ground. I wasn't just hiding; I was hunting.

I had seen Richard and Catherine leave the ballroom. They had exited through the side door, the one that led to the old gazebo near the lake.

I reached the center of the maze, where the stone fountain gurgled in the darkness. I paused, listening.

Voices.

Low, urgent, but distinct.

I moved closer to the perimeter wall, using the shadows as cover. The gazebo was lit by a single, dim bulb, casting long, distorted shadows across the wooden floor.

Richard was pacing. He had wrapped a napkin around his bleeding hand, but the white cloth was already soaked through.

Catherine was sitting on the bench, her legs crossed, the emerald silk of her dress pooling around her like water. She held a cigarette—I had never seen her smoke before—and the ember glowed bright red in the gloom.

"You're making a mess, Richard," she said, her voice devoid of the earlier malice. It was calm. Almost bored.

"You stabbed me," he hissed, clutching his hand to his chest. "In front of everyone. Are you insane?"

"I didn't stab you. You broke a glass. You're clumsy." She took a drag, exhaling a plume of smoke that drifted toward him. "And don't talk to me about insanity. I've spent twenty years playing the part. I think I've earned a little... theatricality."

"Mother is going to be furious."

"Mother is scared," Catherine corrected him. "She knows the money is drying up. She knows the loans are maxed out. And she knows that without me, this whole house of cards collapses."

"We have Elena," Richard said. "Her credit is still good."

Catherine laughed. It was a dry, rasping sound. "Elena is a liability. She's asking questions. She was in the attic, Richard. I saw the light."

"I handled it. I gave her a bracelet. She thinks I bought it."

"With my money," Catherine reminded him. "From the Trust."

"It's all the same money!" Richard shouted, then lowered his voice, glancing around the dark garden. "It's all Vane money."

"No," Catherine said, standing up. She walked over to him, stopping inches away. She reached out and touched the bandage on his hand. He flinched, but didn't pull away. "It's Blackwood money. My father's money. The money you stole when you forced me to sign those papers in Nevada."

"We saved you," Richard whispered. "You were sick. You couldn't handle the business."

"I was grieving," she spat. "I had just lost my son. And instead of helping me, you drugged me and stole my inheritance."

My breath hitched. The diary. *Eleanor took him.*

"He's gone, Cat," Richard said, his voice softening. "Let it go."

"Is he?" She stepped closer, her face tilted up to his. The moonlight caught the sharp angle of her cheekbone. "Because I keep having dreams. Dreams where he's crying. Dreams where I see him."

She paused, her eyes searching his face.

"Tell me the truth, Richard. Did he die? Or did you just... displace him?"

Richard looked away. He looked at the lake, at the dark water reflecting the moon.

"It doesn't matter," he said finally. "It was twenty years ago."

"It matters to me." She dropped her hand from his arm. "And it matters to Elena. Because if she finds out what you did to my son... what do you think she'll do to protect hers?"

I pressed my hand over my mouth to stifle a gasp.

They stood there in the silence, the tension vibrating between them. They weren't fighting anymore. They were conspiring. Negotiating the terms of their mutual destruction.

Then Catherine leaned in and whispered something in his ear. Richard nodded slowly.

He reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His hand lingered on her neck.

They weren't arguing. They were reconciling.