Chapter 4
921 Words
Chapter Four
By the time I pulled into the Ashford estate, the adrenaline had begun to wear off.
The gates slid open automatically, and the guards at the entrance acknowledged my car with the same polite nod they had given me almost every day for years.
Nothing had changed.
The fountains still danced beneath carefully placed lights. The hedges had been trimmed sometime that afternoon. Every window in the house glowed softly against the night.
From the outside, our home looked untouched.
As though grief had somehow learned to stop at the front gate.
I turned into the garage.
Adrian’s car was exactly where he’d left it.
He’d spent nearly a month deciding which model to buy and another month refusing to let anyone else touch it.
The first afternoon he brought it home, I’d rested both hands on the driver’s door with a grin that promised trouble.
“Don’t you dare.”
I had laughed and leaned against it anyway.
He’d chased me around the entire driveway while the security guards tried very hard not to laugh.
For a week afterwards, he’d inspected the paintwork every morning, convinced I’d find a new way to annoy him.
I parked beside it.
It looked wrong sitting there without him.
I stayed in the driver’s seat for another minute.
Only then did I notice my hands.
They were still shaking.
I closed my eyes.
The warehouse.
The cameras hidden in the ceilings.
The voices over the radios.
The effortless way everyone inside had moved, as though they were pieces of a machine that had been working together for years.
I had gone there expecting answers.
Instead, I’d found something far more dangerous than questions.
I climbed out of the car before I could convince myself to sit there all night.
The house was unusually quiet.
The grandfather clock in the foyer announced eleven o’clock with slow, measured chimes.
I had barely reached the staircase when a voice stopped me.
“You’re late.”
I turned.
My mother stood in the doorway to the sitting room, still wearing the black dress she’d worn since the funeral. She looked smaller somehow, as though grief had taken pieces of her that no one else could see.
One of the housemaids lingered awkwardly nearby before disappearing down the hallway.
“I lost track of time,” I said.
She studied me for a long moment.
“I’ve called you twelve times.”
My stomach sank.
I pulled my phone from my pocket.
Still on silent.
Twelve missed calls.
Nine from my mother.
Three from the house.
“I didn’t hear it.”
“No,” she said quietly.
“You didn’t.”
I waited.
She would ask where I’d been.
She always would’ve.
She didn’t.
Instead, she walked towards me until only a few feet separated us.
“Do you have any idea what goes through a mother’s mind when one child doesn’t come home?”
The words hit me before I could prepare for them.
I looked down at the marble floor.
“I’m sorry.”
“I buried your brother three days ago.”
Her voice trembled.
“For hours tonight, nobody knew where you were.”
“I said I was sorry.”
“You said nothing.”
Something inside me finally snapped.
“You never asked where I was.”
A crease formed between her brows.
“What?”
“You asked what time it was.”
“You asked why I wasn’t answering my phone.”
I swallowed.
“You never asked where I was.”
For a heartbeat, she simply stared at me.
Confusion crossed her face.
Then hurt.
“I asked if you were alright.”
“No.”
The word escaped before I could soften it.
“You asked if I knew what time it was.”
“Aurelia…”
“Everyone keeps asking if I’m eating.”
“If I’m sleeping.”
“If I’m remembering to take care of myself.”
A bitter laugh escaped me.
“But nobody asks what I actually need.”
My mother’s shoulders sagged.
“I don’t know what you need anymore.”
Neither did I.
The admission stayed trapped somewhere behind my ribs.
She looked exhausted.
Like someone who had spent days trying to stay standing because collapsing simply wasn’t an option.
“You and Adrian…” she began quietly.
Her eyes drifted towards the staircase.
“You were never apart for this long.”
The words settled between us.
She hadn’t meant to say them.
I knew that.
She knew it too.
There was nothing either of us could do except stand there and let them exist.
Eventually, she rubbed her forehead.
“I’m going to bed.”
She turned away.
Halfway across the hallway, she stopped.
Without looking back, she said,
“I’m glad you’re home.”
Then she disappeared upstairs.
I remained where I was.
The house was silent again.
She hadn’t been angry.
I’d only realised that after it was over.
She’d been terrified.
Somehow, that felt worse.
I climbed the stairs slowly this time.
The moment my bedroom door clicked shut behind me, I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I’d been holding.
I dropped my backpack onto the bed.
When I looked down, I noticed the scrape across my palm.
It burned as I flexed my fingers.
Dried blood sat beneath my fingernails.
Proof.
Today had happened.
The warehouse was real.
Cross was real.
And whatever Adrian had been hiding…
…had followed me home.
- Writer
