The greenhouse sat at the edge of the estate, where the forest kissed the stone walls of Thornridge Manor. Once vibrant with roses and orchids, it now stood wild and overgrown. Vines twisted up the steel frame like veins clinging to a corpse, and the glass panels were fogged and cracked, letting in the morning chill.
Amara had waited for Eli to leave the house for a business meeting in the city. She'd lied easily now—a skill she hadn't realized she possessed until the stakes were survival. He had kissed her forehead before leaving, his touch soft, almost reverent.
She had to steady herself afterward. It hurt to wonder if the warmth was real… or just another mask.
With the old iron key in hand—the one she'd found in the box behind the wall—she stepped into the greenhouse. The scent of damp soil, decaying leaves, and forgotten memories hit her all at once.
Her mother had loved this place.
It used to be their escape.
Now, it was a graveyard.
She walked carefully across the cracked stone tiles, searching for anything out of place. In the far-right corner beneath the crumbling potting table, the floor sounded different—hollow.
She knelt, brushing away dirt and dead petals.
A small wooden hatch lay hidden beneath a mosaic of roots and mold.
She slid the key into the lock. It turned with a reluctant click.
The hatch groaned open.
Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, was another journal.
This one older. Bound in worn leather.
It wasn't her mother's handwriting.
It was a man's.
The first page read:
"August 6, 1991 — Thornridge has eyes. And she is one of them. If you're reading this, I'm likely dead, but the truth must find air."
The signature at the bottom stopped Amara cold.
Silas Ward.
The name struck her like a slap.
She hadn't heard it in years.
Silas was the man her mother had whispered about once, during a fevered night filled with tears. A name she'd begged Amara to forget.
"If anyone ever says that name again, you run."
But here it was.
In black ink.
Attached to secrets buried deep.
She turned the page and began to read. Each word unraveled a thread.
Silas had once been a scientist.
A partner to Eli's father in the early tech years before the company went private.
But according to the journal, there had been more—experiments, coverups, even blackmail involving people in power.
And somehow, her mother, Lena, had been a witness.
Maybe even a whistleblower.
There were codes scribbled in the margins. Coordinates. A list of dates. Transactions. Initials.
And a warning:
"Eli never knew everything. But if he finds this, he'll have to choose between me and the empire he inherited."
Amara's breath caught.
Did Eli know?
Or was he just another casualty of inheritance?
And what did any of this have to do with her mother's disappearance?
Back inside, Amara spread the journal across her bed, comparing Silas's notes to the tapes and her mother's writings.
That's when she noticed something strange.
Three pages of the journal were missing.
Ripped out.
A jagged edge remained, stained with something dark.
Blood?
And at the back of the journal, in a torn envelope, was a photograph.
It showed a group of men in suits standing in front of Thornridge Manor.
At the center was Eli.
But not as she knew him.
This version of Eli was younger, colder. His arm was around a woman.
Her mother.
And standing beside them?
A man with silver hair and a crooked smile.
Silas Ward.
Suddenly, a floorboard creaked outside her door.
Amara quickly stuffed the contents under the mattress and stood.
The knock came slow.
Three times.
She opened it to find Mrs. Thorn, the head housekeeper, staring at her with wide, tired eyes.
"You went to the greenhouse," she said, more statement than question.
Amara hesitated.
"I had to."
The woman stepped inside, closing the door.
"Then you've remembered the name."
"Silas Ward," Amara whispered.
Mrs. Thorn nodded grimly.
"Then it's time you know what really happened the night your mother disappeared."