The grandfather clock in Pierce Manor struck six.
Chapter 2: Rachel's Last Message
Each deep chime echoed through the silent halls like a warning.
Christopher Pierce stood at the foot of the west wing staircase, his clothes changed but his hands still trembling. No matter how many times he washed them, he could still feel the cold water from the pool.
He could still hear Emma screaming.
Behind him, the mansion felt different.
For years it had been a symbol of success—polished marble floors, priceless paintings, crystal chandeliers, and generations of Pierce wealth.
Tonight, it felt like a prison.
A prison built from lies.
Detective Marcus Doyle closed his notebook.
"My officers will remain outside until morning."
Christopher nodded.
"I appreciate it."
"We've taken Juliette into custody. She's requesting an attorney."
Christopher's expression remained unchanged.
"She can have ten."
Doyle hesitated.
"There is something else."
Christopher looked up.
"Mrs. Sloan mentioned your late partner had a private art studio."
"Yes."
"She believes it may contain evidence."
Christopher slowly looked toward the dark corridor leading to the oldest part of the mansion.
Rachel's studio.
Eight years.
Eight long years.
The room had never been opened.
Not once.
His mother had insisted it remain untouched, calling it "a place for grief, not curiosity."
At the time, Christopher believed her.
Now every memory carried a different meaning.
"I'll open it tonight."
Doyle nodded.
"If you find anything connected to today's events, call me immediately."
"I will."
The detective left, and silence returned.
Only Yvette remained.
She stood quietly beside the fireplace, watching Christopher with the concern only someone who had known him since childhood could show.
"You don't have to go alone."
Christopher gave a tired smile.
"I think I do."
Yvette understood.
Some doors could only be opened by the people who had closed them.
...
Emma sat curled beneath a thick blanket in her bedroom.
The family doctor had confirmed she would recover physically.
The emotional wounds were another matter.
She stared out the window as raindrops began tapping softly against the glass.
Christopher entered without knocking.
"Daddy?"
Her voice was barely above a whisper.
He crossed the room and sat beside her.
"How are you feeling?"
"My chest hurts."
"The doctor said that's normal."
Emma nodded.
Then she looked at him with frightened eyes.
"Is Miss Juliette coming back?"
Christopher didn't hesitate.
"No."
"Ever?"
"No."
The little girl finally relaxed against him.
After several quiet moments she asked another question.
"The lady who died..."
Christopher frowned.
"What lady?"
"The one Mommy cried about."
His heart skipped.
"What do you mean?"
Emma bit her lip.
"I heard Grandma talking."
Christopher froze.
"When?"
"A long time ago."
"What did she say?"
Emma closed her eyes, trying to remember.
"She told Miss Juliette..."
Her tiny voice shook.
"...'Rachel should have listened the first time.'"
Christopher felt the room grow colder.
Rachel should have listened.
The sentence echoed inside his head.
Rachel's death had officially been ruled a tragic car accident.
Her brakes had supposedly failed on a mountain road.
The investigation found nothing suspicious.
Or so he had been told.
Had he ever seen the report himself?
No.
His mother handled everything.
The funeral.
The lawyers.
The investigators.
Everything.
Christopher suddenly realized something horrifying.
He had never questioned any of it.
...
An hour later he stood before the heavy oak door at the end of the west wing.
Dust covered the brass handle.
A faded canvas leaned against the wall exactly where Rachel had left it years ago.
He reached into his pocket.
The old silver key still hung on his keyring.
He had carried it every day.
Never once using it.
His hand shook as he inserted the key.
Click.
The lock released.
The smell of paint and lavender drifted into the hallway.
Christopher closed his eyes.
Rachel.
She had always smelled like lavender.
When he pushed the door open, time seemed to stop.
Everything remained exactly as it had been.
Brushes rested inside glass jars.
Half-finished paintings covered wooden easels.
Sunlight from the high windows illuminated floating dust particles that looked almost magical.
A blue sweater hung over the back of Rachel's chair.
Christopher reached toward it.
His fingers brushed the fabric.
Still there.
Still waiting.
He remembered the last morning they spent together.
Rachel had laughed because he accidentally spilled coffee over one of her sketches.
"You owe me a masterpiece now," she'd teased.
He promised he would make it up to her.
Instead...
He buried her.
Christopher swallowed hard.
"I'm sorry."
The empty room offered no reply.
His eyes wandered across the shelves until something caught his attention.
One painting stood facing the wall.
Rachel never stored paintings backward.
Curious, he turned it around.
His breath caught.
It was Emma.
Not the eight-year-old upstairs.
A newborn.
Wrapped in a pale yellow blanket.
Christopher gently touched the painted cheek.
On the back of the canvas, Rachel had written in elegant handwriting.
For the day she finally knows who her father is.
Christopher staggered backward.
His vision blurred.
Rachel had expected this day.
Years before her death.
She had prepared for it.
Why?
His eyes swept across the room more carefully.
This wasn't just an art studio.
It was a message.
Every object had been intentionally left.
Every painting seemed to point somewhere.
He noticed tiny arrows painted into the corner of several canvases.
All pointing toward the old wooden floor beneath Rachel's desk.
Christopher knelt.
The floorboards looked ordinary.
Until he spotted fresh nail marks.
Not fresh anymore.
Eight years old.
Someone had lifted these boards once.
He found a screwdriver inside Rachel's toolbox.
Slowly...
Carefully...
He removed the first board.
Nothing.
The second.
Nothing.
The third lifted with a soft creak.
Underneath rested a weathered cedar chest.
Christopher stared.
Rachel had hidden something.
His pulse thundered as he lifted the chest from the narrow space.
It was heavier than expected.
Across the lid, carved by hand, were three simple words.
For Emma Always.
His hands trembled.
The lock was already open.
He slowly lifted the lid.
Inside lay dozens of neatly arranged envelopes tied with blue ribbon.
Photographs.
Medical records.
Birth certificates.
Legal documents.
A tiny stuffed rabbit Emma had loved as a baby.
Christopher smiled sadly.
Rachel had kept everything.
Then he noticed a small video camera.
Beside it rested a sealed envelope.
His name covered the front.
Christopher
Only that.
Nothing else.
He carefully opened it.
Rachel's familiar handwriting greeted him.
If you're reading this, then either I am gone... or someone finally forced you to look for the truth.
Christopher's breathing became uneven.
Please don't blame yourself yet.
They counted on your trust.
They counted on your love for your family.
That is why they will always underestimate you.
A tear landed on the paper.
He continued reading.
Everything you need is here.
But don't watch the video alone.
Emma deserves to hear the truth beside you.
Christopher closed his eyes.
Even in death...
Rachel had been thinking about their daughter.
A soft knock interrupted him.
Yvette stood in the doorway.
"I brought you some tea."
She stopped when she saw the opened chest.
"Oh..."
Christopher looked up.
"You knew."
Yvette slowly nodded.
"I knew Rachel was hiding something."
"You never told me."
"I promised her."
Christopher stared silently.
Yvette continued.
"Rachel said there would come a day when only you could decide whether to learn the truth."
"She believed that if she told you too early..."
"...you would confront your family before you had proof."
Christopher lowered his head.
"She was right."
Yvette stepped closer.
"There is one more thing."
She reached into her apron pocket and produced an old brass key.
"I found this beneath Rachel's pillow after she died."
Christopher examined it.
"What does it open?"
"I don't know."
Rachel never had the chance to tell me."
Suddenly...
A loud crash echoed from downstairs.
Both of them looked toward the hallway.
Another crash.
Glass shattered.
Voices shouted.
Christopher rushed from the room.
By the time he reached the grand foyer, three police officers were already running through the front entrance.
One of them yelled,
"Sir!"
"The evidence room has been broken into!"
Christopher frowned.
"What evidence?"
"The recorder Mrs. Sloan gave Detective Doyle."
Yvette gasped.
"It was locked inside the patrol vehicle."
The officer nodded grimly.
"It was."
"But someone knew exactly where to find it."
Christopher's eyes narrowed.
"Was anything else taken?"
The officer hesitated.
Then answered quietly.
"No."
"Only the recorder."
Someone wasn't trying to steal valuables.
Someone wasn't after money.
Someone wanted one thing.
Silence.
Christopher slowly turned back toward Rachel's studio.
Toward the hidden chest.
Toward the unopened camera waiting inside.
If someone was willing to risk breaking into police custody just to destroy one recording...
Then whatever Rachel had left behind...
May you like
Was worth killing for.
End of Chapter 2
