Prologue
409 Words
December 14, 2024 - Harrow House
The sea was louder that night.
It beat against the cliffs like a thing alive, slamming its cold fists against the jagged shoreline below Harrow House. The wind howled down the chimney flues and rattled every loose windowpane as if trying to get in. Even the old floorboards, which usually creaked like polite reminders, groaned underfoot like they too felt the storm’s weight.
Evelyn Harrow stood by the parlor window, barefoot, unmoving, dressed in her husband’s favorite silk robe. Midnight blue, it shimmered in the low firelight the only light in the room besides the dim flicker of a dying lamp. Her hand rested gently on the glass, cold meeting colder, as her eyes traced the violent rhythm of the ocean far below.
She had never liked the sea.
Not even in her girlhood when others found it romantic all windblown hair and sun-kissed salt on skin. To Evelyn, the ocean had always felt like a secret kept by the earth a deep, unknowable thing that pulled and pulled, and never gave anything back without a price.
Tonight, it had taken her husband.
Gideon Harrow, found drowned at the base of the rocks before dawn. His body, broken. His pocket watch, stopped. His secrets, not buried nearly deep enough.
They said it was an accident. They said it must have been the storm.
But the storm had not started until after he left the house.
And Evelyn had not cried.
Not yet.
The old grandfather clock clicked over to midnight. A hollow sound. Mechanical, precise.
Behind her, the fire hissed. Somewhere upstairs, a shutter banged loose. The wind’s voice rose again almost a whisper now. A breath caught in the throat of the house.
Evelyn turned slowly from the window.
On the side table, Gideon’s untouched glass of scotch waited watered down now, the ice melted. His favorite leather gloves lay folded beside it, the fingers still curled as if remembering the shape of his hands.
Her gaze drifted to the velvet box on the mantel. The one he had locked away for months. The one she had found open, empty, the day before he died.
She hadn’t told anyone about the box. Not the maid. Not the doctor. Not the detective who would soon arrive asking questions she was not ready to answer.
Because Evelyn Harrow had buried more than a husband.
She had buried the truth.
And someone somewhere knew it.
- Writer
