The Things He Didn't Tell Her
1253 Words
Chapter Eight
Damien's POV
I didn't make it far down the corridor before Elias caught up with me.
“Damien.”
I stopped.
He looked toward Genevieve's closed door before lowering his voice.
“She knows.”
“She suspects.”
“That's worse.”
I turned to him.
“What did you recover from the recording device?”
“Nothing yet.”
“Yet?”
“The audio is encrypted.”
I frowned.
“Can you break it?”
“I can try.”
“Don't try. Do it.”
Elias gave me a look.
“You're becoming impatient.”
“I've been patient for four years.”
“And look where that got you.”
I said nothing.
He was right.
Four years of searching had given me fragments.
Names.
Dates.
Dead ends.
And one unanswered question.
Why did Julian Moreau die?
Now his daughter was standing in the middle of the same mystery.
And somehow, I had the feeling she was going to uncover everything before I did.
Elias lowered his voice.
“You need to tell her.”
“No.”
“She deserves to know.”
“She deserves to stay alive.”
“Those two things aren't mutually exclusive.”
I looked toward the staircase.
“Tonight, someone entered this house without triggering the main security system.”
Elias nodded.
“They knew exactly where the cameras were.”
“They knew where Genevieve was staying.”
“They knew about the study.”
“And they knew about the deal.”
Silence.
That last part bothered me most.
Only three people had known about the agreement.
Genevieve.
Elias.
Me.
Unless someone had been listening.
My thoughts returned to the recording device.
“Check every room.”
“We already searched the obvious places.”
“Then search the places that aren't obvious.”
Elias sighed.
“You're expecting an intruder who knows the estate better than we do.”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“I'm expecting someone who has been here before.”
His expression changed.
“Someone from the family?”
“Possibly.”
“Damien…”
“I want everyone questioned.”
“Everyone?”
“Everyone.”
He nodded.
Then stopped.
“What about Eleanor?”
I looked at him.
“What about her?”
“She was the one who warned Genevieve about the room.”
I remembered Eleanor's expression.
The fear in her eyes.
The way she'd said:
Everyone in this house is hiding something.
“Find her.”
“She disappeared.”
My jaw tightened.
“What?”
“After we brought her to the medical room, she left.”
“Without telling anyone?”
“Yes.”
That wasn't like Eleanor.
She had served my family for more than twenty years.
She knew every corridor, every locked door, every secret passage in the estate.
If she had left voluntarily, there was a reason.
“Find her.”
Elias nodded and walked away.
I remained in the corridor.
My eyes moved toward Genevieve's door.
I shouldn't have been thinking about her.
But I was.
She was stubborn.
Too curious.
Too willing to walk directly toward danger.
And somehow, despite everything I'd learned about her, I couldn't stop wondering what my life would have looked like if I'd met her under different circumstances.
Not because of our families.
Not because of the lighthouse.
Not because of the deal.
Just her.
Just me.
I pushed the thought away.
This wasn't the time.
I returned to the study.
The old photograph was still on the desk.
I took it out of my jacket.
My father's face stared back at me.
Beside him stood Julian Moreau.
Both men looked younger.
Less burdened.
And between them stood the person whose face had been deliberately scratched away.
I turned the photograph over.
Nothing.
I examined the edges.
Then I noticed something.
A faint line ran along the back.
I pressed my thumb against it.
The photograph folded open.
A hidden compartment.
Inside was a small piece of paper.
I unfolded it.
Three words.
Seventeen. Blackwater.
My pulse quickened.
Seventeen.
The same number I'd seen on the lighter.
This wasn't a coincidence.
I grabbed my phone.
“Elias.”
He answered immediately.
“Did you find Eleanor?”
“No.”
“Forget her for now. I need you to look into something.”
“What?”
“Blackwater. Seventeen.”
Silence.
“Damien…”
“What?”
“You're not going to like this.”
“Tell me.”
“The old Blackwater property has seventeen rooms.”
I frowned.
“So?”
“Room seventeen doesn't exist on the current floor plan.”
I stared at the note.
“Find the old plans.”
“I'll need time.”
“You have ten minutes.”
I ended the call.
A sound came from behind me.
I turned.
Genevieve stood in the doorway.
My heart stopped.
“How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough.”
I slipped the note into my pocket.
Her eyes narrowed.
“You're hiding something.”
“Yes.”
“At least you're honest.”
She stepped inside.
“I heard you talking about Blackwater.”
I said nothing.
“My father knew about that place, didn't he?”
“Genevieve.”
“Don't.”
She moved closer.
“I've spent four years being told my father's death was an accident.”
Her voice trembled.
“Tonight I discovered it wasn't. I found his photograph. His letter. His lighter. And now you're hiding something else.”
I watched her carefully.
“You don't know what you're asking.”
“Then tell me.”
“If I tell you, you can't unknow it.”
“Neither can you.”
That stopped me.
She was right.
I looked at the woman standing before me.
She wasn't afraid anymore.
She was angry.
Determined.
And I knew I couldn't keep her away from the truth.
Not anymore.
“Your father went to Blackwater seventeen days before he died.”
Her expression changed.
“What happened there?”
“He met someone.”
“Who?”
“We don't know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because nobody survived long enough to tell us.”
Her face paled.
“Nobody?”
I nodded.
“Your father wasn't the first person to disappear after visiting Blackwater.”
She swallowed.
“How many?”
I looked at her.
“Seven.”
The room fell silent.
Genevieve's eyes widened.
“Seven people?”
“Seven people over twelve years.”
“And my father was number eight?”
“No.”
I paused.
“He was number nine.”
She stared at me.
“Who was number eight?”
I didn't answer immediately.
Because the answer was the one secret I'd promised myself I would never reveal.
But Genevieve deserved the truth.
“Someone from my family.”
Her eyes widened.
“Who?”
I looked toward the window.
“My older brother.”
Genevieve went completely still.
“You have a brother?”
“Had.”
She lowered her voice.
“What happened to him?”
“He went to Blackwater.”
“And never came back?”
“No.”
I looked at her.
“Neither did your father.”
Before she could respond, my phone vibrated.
A message.
I opened it.
One sentence.
STOP LOOKING FOR ROOM SEVENTEEN.
Then another message appeared.
OR GENEVIÈVE WILL BECOME NUMBER TEN.
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