Chapter 13 - Freezing Water in the Nursery
The rain began just after midnight, drumming an ominous, relentless rhythm against the slate roofs of the Vance estate. In the master wing, Clara woke with a start, her skin slick with cold sweat. Her chest ached—the phantom sensation of water filling her lungs, the memory that haunted every thunderstorm.
She turned to look at Julian’s side of the bed. It was empty. The sheets were cold.
"Julian?" she called out softly, pulling her silk robe around her trembling frame.
No answer. Only the low moan of the wind through the eaves.
A sudden thump echoed from down the hallway, coming directly from the nursery.
Clara froze. Every mother’s instinct inside her screamed. She bolted from the bed, her bare feet making no sound against the polished oak floors. The hallway was pitch black; the nightlights had inexplicably been turned off.
"JJ?" she whispered, pushing the heavy mahogany door to the nursery open.
The room was freezing. The French doors leading out to the second-story balcony were wide open, curtains thrashing wildly in the driving rain. Rainwater was pooling across the soft sheepskin rug, creeping toward the white crib.
"JJ!" Clara gasped, rushing forward and peering into the crib.
The baby was sleeping, bundled in his blanket, completely oblivious. Clara let out a choked sob of relief and reached down to scoop him up. But as she touched the railing of the crib, her hand brushed against something wet and sticky on the wooden post.
She pulled her hand back. In the faint lightning flash from outside, she saw her fingers coated in a thick, dark liquid.
It wasn't paint. It was red wax, still warm, forming the shape of an hourglass.
Suddenly, from the ensuite baby bathroom adjacent to the nursery, the distinct sound of gushing water began to roar. The faucets had been turned on full blast.
Clara clutched JJ against her chest and slowly moved toward the bathroom door, pushing it open with her elbow.
The porcelain baby bathtub was overflowing. But it wasn't warm bathwater. The tub was filled to the brim with murky, ice-cold water, and floating on the surface were dozens of black calla lilies—Eleanor’s favorite flower.
Pinned to the bathroom mirror with a silver surgical scalpel was a damp handwritten note:
May you like
*Cold water preserves memories, Clara. But this time, you won’t be the one going under.*
***
