Chapter 12 - A Message in Ink
Arthur stopped ten feet from the hydrangeas. "Who’s there? This is private property. Security has been alerted."
The bushes rustled, but no one stepped out. Instead, a small, black envelope sailed through the air, landing softly on the manicured grass. It was heavy, textured cardstock, sealed with a wax stamp that bore an emblem I hadn't seen in years: a stylized serpent, the old seal of the family I had spent a lifetime escaping.
Arthur stepped back, his face pale. "Don't touch that, Amanda."
"It's for me," I said, my voice barely a tremor.
I approached the envelope, my senses screaming for me to run, but my feet moved with a grim, fated necessity. I knelt, picking it up. The wax was still warm, as if it had been sealed only moments ago.
I tore it open. Inside was a single photograph of the hospital bed where I had hidden from Victoria a year ago, and a handwritten note in elegant, cruel calligraphy.
Legacy is a ghost, Amanda. It does not disappear just because you pretend it is dead. The debt remains, and the price is always paid in blood.
"What does it say?" Arthur asked, hovering just behind me, his eyes darting to the treeline.
"It says the past isn't done with us," I replied, the paper shaking in my grip.
I looked back at the house, where Ethan was pressed against the glass door, watching us with wide, uncertain eyes. The security cameras, which had felt like protectors only moments ago, now felt like observation tools for some unseen, malevolent force.
May you like
"Arthur, call the private security team," I said, my voice hardening. "Tell them to sweep the perimeter. And tell them not to come back until they have a name."
The sun slipped below the horizon, and for the first time in a year, the garden felt cold.
