Chapter 5 - Whispers in the Dark
The line went completely dead with a sharp click. Arthur remained frozen with the receiver pressed to his ear, the harsh dial tone buzzing against his eardrum. Eleanor watched his expression shift from bewilderment to sheer horror.
""What did they say?"" she demanded, stepping forward to snatch the phone from his grip. ""Arthur, tell me!""
""It was a voice scrambler,"" Arthur stammered, sinking back into his leather seat. ""They know we have the address. They told me to burn Chloe’s file... and they threatened to expose Julian’s debts.""
Eleanor slammed both hands down onto the antique desk, knocking over the untouched glass of bourbon. The amber liquid seeped across the polished mahogany, but neither of them moved to clean it. ""I do not care about Julian’s reputation! I do not care if our family name is dragged through the gutter! That girl has my locket, Arthur! She has my daughter's birthmark! If my brother was a monster, then let the world know he was a monster!""
""Eleanor, listen to me,"" Arthur pleaded, grasping her wrists with desperate gentleness. ""Julian wasn't alone in this. The voice warned that digging would destroy our entire foundation. What if your father was part of it? Do you want to see your family legacy wiped out for a memory?""
""She is not a memory!"" Eleanor shouted, pulling her hands free with unexpected ferocity. ""She is alive! She was pouring water at our table two hours ago! If you won't drive to Blackwood Ridge, I will go by myself.""
Arthur saw the wild, unbreakable resolve burning behind his wife’s hazel eyes—the exact same fierce fire he had seen in Chloe’s eyes only hours earlier. He knew there was no stopping her.
""I'm coming with you,"" Arthur conceded quietly, unlocking the bottom drawer of his desk to retrieve an old service revolver he had not loaded in fifteen years. ""We go together. But we go silently. If Thorne realizes we're coming, we might never see her again.""
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Forty minutes later, the Vance sedan ascended the winding, fog-shrouded road leading up to Blackwood Ridge. The dense pine trees formed a claustrophobic canopy overhead, blotting out the late afternoon sky. As they rounded the final hairpin turn toward the abandoned boathouse, Arthur abruptly killed the car's headlights.
Through the damp mist, parked right beside the dilapidated wooden dock, sat the black sedan from the restaurant. The driver's door hung wide open, and red brake lights were still softly glowing against the murky water below.
