Chapter 6 - The Man Who Died Twice
When Clara stepped into the cabin, the smell of damp wood, old paper, and antiseptic filled her nose. The living room was comfortable but sparse—shelves lined with books on philosophy and architecture, a small television playing low-volume news, and dozens of framed photographs.
None of the photographs contained Clara. They were all of Eleanor and Richard at charity galas and corporate events.
Arthur Vance sat in a leather armchair in the center of the room, flanked by two officers. He was sixty-two now, his hair completely white, his face etched with deep lines of exhaustion and regret. He wore a simple wool sweater and dark trousers. He looked less like a corporate titan and more like a ghost who had forgotten how to haunt.
He didn't look up when Clara entered. He couldn't.
"Dad?" Clara’s voice cracked, breaking the heavy silence of the room.
Arthur flinched as if he had been struck. Slowly, agonizingly, he lifted his eyes. Tears welled up in his tired, blue irises, overflowing and running down his withered cheeks.
"Clara..." he whispered, his voice dry and raspy from years of disuse. "My sweet girl... what have they done to you?"
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"What have they done?" Clara took a step closer, her handcuffs clinking loudly in the quiet room. "What did you do, Dad? You let them lock me away! You let the world believe you burned to death! You let me carry the weight of your murder for eight years!"
Arthur shook his head violently, his chest heaving. "I didn't know, Clara! God forgive me, I swear on your mother’s memory, I didn't know you were in prison!"
