Blackwood

The Lights Go Out

The darkness was complete.

George stood frozen in his father's private study, his hand still holding the folder of photographs. The steel door had slammed shut behind Lucy. The lights were off. The only sound was his own breathing and the muffled footsteps of someone moving in the hallway.

"Lucy?" He kept his voice calm. "What's going on?"

No answer.

He pulled out his phone and turned on the flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness, illuminating the small room. The desk. The filing cabinet. The photograph on the wall of his father with that unknown woman.

And the door.

It wasn't just closed. It was locked.

George crossed the room and tried the handle. Steel. Cold. Immovable. Someone had thrown a bolt from the outside.

"Lucy!" He pounded on the door with his fist. "Open the door!"

Still nothing.

He pressed his ear against the cold metal. Footsteps. Two sets now. Moving away. Then a voice—low, urgent, too quiet to make out the words.

George stepped back and took a breath. Panic wouldn't help. He'd been in worse situations. Not many, but some.

He turned the flashlight to the walls. The private study was small—maybe twelve feet by twelve feet. No windows. No vents large enough to crawl through. Just the steel door and whatever was inside the filing cabinet and desk.

He started with the desk.

The bottom drawer was already open, the folder in his hand. He set it aside and checked the other drawers. Top drawer: pens, paper clips, a small leather notebook. Middle drawer: a handgun. A Sig Sauer, fully loaded. George left it there. He wasn't ready to start carrying a weapon.

The notebook was more interesting.

He opened it under the flashlight beam. His father's handwriting—cramped, hurried, nothing like the elegant script Julian used for business letters.

The first page had a single word: Christopher.

George's heart skipped. He flipped the page.

Born March 14th. St. Joseph's Hospital, Providence. 7 pounds, 3 ounces. Healthy. Elizabeth says he looks like me. He doesn't. He looks like her.

George flipped faster.

First birthday. I couldn't go. Sent a gift through Maya. Elizabeth sent a photo. He's walking already. Smart kid. Too smart.

Age 4. I saw him for the first time. Elizabeth brought him to the boathouse. I stayed in the shadows. He asked his mother why the man was hiding. Elizabeth said I was shy. He laughed. I almost cried.

Age 7. He asked about his father. Elizabeth told him he was away on business. He said, "All fathers are away on business." I wanted to step out of the shadows. I didn't.

Age 10. He's getting too curious. Elizabeth says he's been asking questions about the Blackwood family. I don't know how he found out. Maybe the internet. Maybe someone told him. I need to be more careful.

The last entry was dated three months ago.

She knows. I don't know how, but she knows about Christopher. She's threatening to tell. I can't let that happen. Elizabeth will be destroyed. Christopher will be destroyed. I have to find another way.

George read the entry three times.

She knows.

Who was she?

The notebook didn't say. But the text message in the folder—Tell him, Julian. Or I will—was clearly connected. Someone had been threatening Julian for months. Someone who knew about Christopher.

And now Julian was missing.

George put the notebook in his pocket. He'd read the rest later. Right now, he needed to get out of this room.

He tried the door again. Still locked. He pounded again.

"Hey! Someone out there!"

Silence.

Then, faintly, he heard Arthur's voice. "George? Is that you?"

"Yes! The door is locked. Can you open it?"

A pause. Then: "I'll try. Stand back."

George stepped away from the door. He heard metal scraping against metal. A grunt. Then a click.

The door swung open.

Arthur stood in the hallway, his face pale in the dim light. Maya was behind him, her hand on her sidearm. Vincent lingered further back, watching with an unreadable expression.

"What happened?" Arthur asked.

George stepped out of the study. "Lucy locked me in."

"Lucy?" Arthur's face went through several emotions—confusion, disbelief, then something darker. "That's not possible. Lucy was in the kitchen. I just saw her."

"She was standing right there." George pointed at the doorway. "She had her phone out. She showed me a text message. Someone told her to 'take care of it.'"

Arthur turned to Maya. "Find Lucy. Now."

Maya nodded and disappeared down the hallway.

Arthur grabbed George's arm. His grip was tight. "What did you find in there? In Dad's study?"

George pulled his arm free. He didn't trust Arthur. He didn't trust anyone in this house. But he needed help. And Arthur was the only one who seemed as desperate as George felt.

"Dad had a second family," George said quietly. "A woman named Elizabeth. A son named Christopher. The boy is maybe twelve years old."

Arthur's face went white. "What?"

"You didn't know?"

"No. I swear to God, George, I didn't know." Arthur ran a hand through his hair. "A son. Dad had another son."

"Someone was threatening him about it. Text messages. Letters. Someone wanted him to tell the truth, and he refused." George paused. "I think that someone took him."

Vincent stepped forward. His face was hard. "You're saying Dad was kidnapped by the mother of his secret bastard?"

"I'm saying someone wanted something from him, and when he didn't give it, they took him." George looked at Vincent. "Unless you already knew about Christopher."

Vincent's eyes narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you've been digging through Dad's finances for years. You tipped off the federal investigators. You've been positioning yourself to take over." George took a step closer. "If anyone in this family knew about a secret heir who could challenge your claim, it would be you."

Vincent's fist clenched. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Then deny it. Tell me you didn't know about Christopher."

Vincent opened his mouth. Closed it. His face was a battle of emotions.

"I found out six months ago," he finally said. "I was going through Dad's private server. I found a folder with Elizabeth's name on it. Photos. Legal documents. I confronted him about it."

"And?"

"And he told me to stay out of it. Said it was none of my business." Vincent laughed bitterly. "None of my business. Like finding out I had a secret brother wasn't my business."

Arthur grabbed Vincent's shoulder. "You should have told me."

"I should have told you a lot of things. Like how you've been stealing from the company for years."

The hallway went silent.

George looked at Arthur. Arthur wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Is that true?" George asked.

Arthur's jaw tightened. "It's not what you think."

"Then what is it?"

Arthur took a breath. "I've been moving money into a private account. For Dad. He asked me to do it. He said he needed a contingency fund. Something off the books that no one could trace."

"A contingency fund for what?"

"He wouldn't say. But he was scared, George. Dad was never scared of anything. But the last year, he was terrified." Arthur's voice dropped. "He said someone was trying to destroy the family. Someone inside the family."

Maya appeared at the end of the hallway. Her face was grim.

"Lucy's not in the house. Her car is gone. And the security cameras are offline."

George's blood ran cold. "Someone shut them down?"

"Manually. Someone cut the cables leading to the recording room. The last hour of footage is gone."

Arthur cursed under his breath. "Find her. Find Lucy. I don't care how long it takes."

Maya nodded and disappeared again.

George turned to Arthur. "Your wife just locked me in a room and ran. What else aren't you telling me?"

Arthur looked old. Tired. Broken in a way George had never seen.

"Lucy and I haven't been... good for a long time. She's been distant. Secretive. I thought she was just unhappy. But now..." He trailed off.

"Now you think she's involved in Dad's disappearance."

"I don't know what to think anymore."

George pulled out the notebook and flipped to the last entry. "Dad wrote something. Three months ago. 'She knows. I don't know how, but she knows about Christopher. She's threatening to tell.'"

Arthur read the words. His face went through several expressions—confusion, realization, then horror.

"She," Arthur whispered. "Not 'they.' She."

"Who is she, Arthur? Who would Dad be afraid of?"

Arthur looked up. His eyes were wet.

"Eleanor," he said. "Our mother."

---

The name hung in the air like a curse.

George shook his head. "No. Mom doesn't leave her room. She hasn't left her room in years. The agoraphobia—"

"Agoraphobia is what Dad told us. But I've been here, George. I've been visiting her every day. Reading to her through the door. And she talks. Sometimes. When she's lucid."

"Talks about what?"

"About Dad. About his lies. About the things he did to build this family." Arthur's voice cracked. "She said he sold his soul. And she said she was going to make him pay."

George stared at his brother. "You think Mom threatened Dad? She can barely hold a conversation."

"You haven't seen her lately. The doctors changed her medication a year ago. She's better. Clearer. She's been asking questions about the company. About the money."

"How do you know?"

"Because she asked me. Three months ago. She called me into her room—first time in five years she let anyone inside. She looked me in the eye and said, 'Your father has a second family. A son. Did you know?'"

George's heart pounded. "What did you say?"

"I said I didn't know. Which was true. But she didn't believe me. She said, 'You're lying. You're all lying. But I'll find out the truth.'"

Arthur grabbed George's arm again. "Two weeks later, Dad showed me that text message. 'Tell him, Julian. Or I will.' I thought it was from someone outside the family. But what if it was from Mom?"

George pulled away. His mind was racing. His mother—the woman who'd spent years in a pill-induced haze—was somehow at the center of this.

"I need to see her."

"George—"

"Now, Arthur. Take me to her room."

Arthur hesitated. Then he nodded.

They walked through the mansion in silence. The hallways were dark. The staff had gone to bed. Only the occasional nightlight illuminated their path.

Eleanor's room was at the end of the west wing. The door was solid oak, painted white, with a small brass knocker in the shape of a lion's head.

Arthur knocked. "Mom? It's Arthur. George is here. He wants to see you."

Silence.

"Mom?"

Still nothing.

George pushed the door open.

The room was empty.

The bed was made. The windows were open, curtains billowing in the cold night air. A single lamp burned on the nightstand.

And on the pillow was a photograph.

George picked it up.

It was the same woman from his father's folder. Elizabeth. But this time, she wasn't alone. She was standing next to a woman George recognized.

His mother.

They were smiling. Holding hands. Like old friends.

George flipped the photograph over. On the back, in his mother's handwriting:

I know everything. And soon, everyone else will too.

Arthur stared at the photograph, his face ashen. "Mom knows Elizabeth?"

"I think," George said slowly, "Mom is Elizabeth."

Arthur shook his head. "That doesn't make sense. Dad had an affair. Christopher is his son with another woman."

"Or maybe Christopher is Mom's son. Maybe Dad was protecting her." George looked at the photograph again. "Maybe the affair wasn't with another woman. Maybe it was with another man."

Arthur's face twisted. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I don't know anything anymore. But I'm going to find out."

He put the photograph in his pocket next to the notebook and walked to the window. The lawn stretched out below, dark and empty. But at the edge of the property, near the boathouse, he saw a light.

A single flashlight beam, moving through the trees.

Someone was out there.

"Maya," George said. "Is she still in the house?"

Arthur checked his phone. "She's in the security room, trying to restore the cameras."

George pointed out the window. "Then who is that?"

Arthur looked. His face went pale.

The flashlight beam stopped moving. It pointed directly at the house. At their window.

And then it went out.

George's phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

Come to the boathouse. Come alone. Come now. Or your mother dies.