Chapter 14 - The Locked Ward at Midnight
By three in the afternoon, Julian announced he had to drive into New Haven to finalize the private nursing contract for the home delivery.
"Three hours, maximum," he said, kissing her lips. "I locked the back patio doors so the wind doesn't blow them open. Don't leave the bed."
The moment the taillights of his Volvo disappeared past the pine grove, Clara moved.
Her heart was thumping violently against her ribs. She didn't call the police. The police had bought Julian’s narrative at Blackwood Manor; they had treated Julian as the heroic husband who pulled his pregnant wife from a blazing nursery while his deranged mother set the fires. If she called 911 claiming her husband was poisoning her with unmarked pills, Julian would produce Dr. Morrison’s medical charts and have her legally committed for postpartum psychosis before sunset.
She went straight to Julian’s study in the cottage’s converted boathouse.
The oak desk was locked, but the brass safety-deposit key she had stolen from his jacket was not meant for this desk. She used a kitchen butter knife, wedging it into the antique brass latch until the wood splintered with a sharp crack.
Inside the center drawer was a manila folder marked: *PROJECT VANCE: SETTLEMENT & SUCCESSION.*
Clara opened it with shaking hands.
Her eyes skimmed the legal jargon, her breath catching in her throat. It was not a lease for the cottage. It was a deed of purchase, executed six months ago—long before the fire at Blackwood Manor. Julian had bought this isolated seaside house under an anonymous LLC while Clara was barely three months pregnant.
Beneath the deed was a psychiatric transfer report stamped with the seal of *St. Vincent’s Psychiatric Facility*.
*Patient: Vance, Eleanor.*
*Status: Incarcerated under private guardianship.*
*Guardianship Holder: Vance, Julian.*
*Clinical Note: Patient remains sedated via chlorpromazine infusions. Patient repeatedly claims she did not ignite the fire on October 14. Patient insists Julian Vance locked her inside the cellar and ignited the nursery himself.*
Clara’s knees buckled. She slammed her hand against the desk to stay upright.
Eleanor didn't do it.
The baby shower. The smoke alarms that had been deactivated. The smell of accelerant on the antique curtains. Eleanor had screamed at Clara at the foot of the stairs: *"He’s going to kill you just like he killed Ethan! He needs the bloodline clear!"*
Clara had thought Eleanor was mad. Julian had told the detectives his mother had lost her mind following Ethan’s suicide.
Ethan hadn't committed suicide.
A shadow fell across the frosted window of the boathouse door.
Clara whipped around, dropping the folder. Through the glass, a tall, gaunt silhouette stood motionless on the wet gravel path.
It wasn't Julian. Julian had taken the car.
May you like
The brass doorknob began to rattle.
***
