Chapter 3 - THE SCAR OF THE PAST
Vincent stared at the crayon drawing in his hands. The jagged, red lines depicting the scarred man seemed to burn into the paper.
“The old guard talks tonight, and we burn the house down with everyone in it.”
The innocence of the child’s handwriting made the violent threat infinitely more terrifying.
Vincent slowly stood up, keeping Lily gently tucked behind his leg. He looked at Henry. The sophisticated, composed uncle was gone. In his place sat a man whose skin had turned the color of wet ash.
“Who is the man with the scar, Henry?” Vincent asked. The calmness in his voice was far more dangerous than if he had shouted.
Henry swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Vincent, you cannot possibly take the doodles of a seven-year-old child seriously. She has an overactive imagination. She probably saw the gardener—”
“The gardener has been with us for twenty years and doesn’t have a scar on his neck,” Vincent interrupted, taking a step toward his uncle. “I will ask you one more time. Who is the man you paid off in my garden?”
Before Henry could invent another lie, Vanessa stepped forward. She was staring at the charred silver pocket watch resting on the table, completely ignoring the threat to the house. Her breathing was shallow, her eyes wide with a frantic, desperate recognition.
“Where did you get that?” Vanessa whispered, pointing a trembling, manicured finger at the watch.
Vincent frowned, looking between his fiancée and the blackened silver. “My mother hid it in the rosewood box. Why? Do you know who it belonged to?”
Vanessa didn't answer immediately. She walked slowly toward the table, as if drawn by some magnetic, invisible force. She reached out, her hand hovering over the warped metal.
“The initials,” she breathed. “Are they T.R.?”
Vincent looked at the back of the watch. The heat had melted the silver, but two ornate letters were still visible near the hinge.
“Yes,” Vincent said gently. “T.R. How did you know?”
Vanessa let out a sound that was half-gasp, half-sob. The cold, unapproachable woman who had ruthlessly humiliated James just an hour earlier vanished. She collapsed into one of the dining chairs, covering her face with her hands.
“Because my maiden name isn't Moretti,” Vanessa cried, the tears ruining her flawless makeup. “I took my stepfather’s name when my mother remarried. My real name is Vanessa Rossi.”
The room went entirely still. Even the storm outside seemed to hold its breath.
I looked at James. The elderly guard’s jaw dropped. He staggered backward, catching himself on the edge of the sideboard.
“Rossi,” James whispered, his voice cracking. “Thomas Rossi’s daughter. You’re little Vinnie.”
Vanessa’s head snapped up. Her eyes were red, blazing with a sudden, resurrected fury. She pointed a shaking finger at James.
“Don't you call me that!” she screamed. “Don't you dare use the name he gave me! You left him to burn!”
James shook his head frantically, raising his hands in a pleading gesture. “No, ma'am, I swear to God I didn't! I tried to get the door open. The keys were gone!”
“Liar!” Vanessa sobbed, standing up and closing the distance between them. “For thirty-four years, I grew up without a father because of you! Henry told me the truth! He told me you locked that door to save yourself, and that you stole my father’s watch to cover your tracks!”
I watched the pieces fall into place, forming a picture so ugly it made my stomach turn.
“Henry told you?” Vincent asked, his voice echoing in the silence. He turned his gaze slowly toward his uncle. “You found the night watchman’s daughter. You brought her into my life. You introduced us.”
Vanessa wiped her face, her chest heaving. “Henry found my mother a year after the fire. We were destitute. My father’s life insurance wouldn't pay out because the police ruled the fire an accident caused by my father’s own negligence. Henry stepped in. He said he felt responsible. He paid for my schooling, my clothes, my whole life. But he made me promise never to tell you who I really was.”
“Why?” Vincent demanded.
“Because he said you would hate me!” Vanessa cried, looking at Vincent with desperate, pleading eyes. “He said if you knew I was the daughter of the man who almost killed you, you would never love me. But Henry promised he would take care of us. He set up a trust for me.”
“What trust?” Vincent asked, his eyes narrowing.
Vanessa sniffled, crossing her arms defensively. “The West Exit Trust. I’ve received a stipend from it every month since I was eight years old.”
Vincent looked at me. As the house manager, I handled the incoming mail and oversaw the domestic accounts.
“Eleanor,” Vincent said. “Have you ever seen correspondence for a West Exit Trust?”
“Never, sir,” I replied honestly. “All family trusts are managed through the primary estate accounts. I review the summaries quarterly. There is no West Exit Trust on the books.”
Vincent looked back at Henry. “You’ve been paying her out of a shadow account. An account named after the door her father died behind.”
Henry stood up, attempting to adjust his suit jacket and regain his dignity. “I was providing for an orphaned child, Vincent. The optics of the company paying the family of the man responsible for the fire would have ruined our public image. It had to be handled discreetly.”
“My father wasn't responsible!” Vanessa yelled, stepping toward Henry. “He was a good man!”
“He was careless!” Henry snapped back, his temper finally breaking. “He was smoking near the chemical barrels at eleven-forty! He started the first fire, realized what he had done, and tried to cover it up! He locked himself in by accident in his panic!”
“That’s a lie.”
The voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of absolute certainty.
We all turned to James. The elderly guard had stopped shaking. He stood remarkably straight, pulling his shoulders back. He reached into the inside pocket of his gray suit jacket.
“Thomas didn't smoke,” James said firmly. “He had severe asthma. He couldn't even be in the same room as a lit cigarette.”
Henry sneered. “Are you going to play detective now, old man? You ran away like a coward.”
“I ran to get the children,” James said, his voice steady. “I carried Vincent out. I went back for Vanessa, who was sleeping in the breakroom. By the time I got them safe, the whole west wing was engulfed.”
James pulled his hand out of his jacket. He wasn't holding a handkerchief or another piece of paper.
He was holding a heavy, rusted iron padlock.
It was massive, the size of a man’s fist, covered in thirty-four years of grime and soot.
Vanessa gasped, covering her mouth.
“The fire investigators said the west exit door melted shut,” James continued, walking toward the dining table and placing the heavy padlock down with a loud, metallic thud. “But they didn't look hard enough. Or maybe they were paid not to look at all.”
Vincent stared at the rusted metal. “Where did you get this?”
“I went back to the ashes three days later, Mr. Vincent,” James said quietly. “Before the bulldozers cleared the site. I found the door frame in the rubble. The door hadn't melted shut.”
James pointed a weathered, calloused finger at the padlock.
“Someone wrapped a logging chain around the exterior handles and secured it with this,” James said. “Thomas didn't lock himself in by accident. Someone locked him in from the outside. To make sure he couldn't escape.”
Vincent picked up the heavy lock. He turned it over in his hands. He rubbed his thumb over the bottom plate, wiping away a layer of black soot.
A custom engraving was revealed beneath the rust.
It wasn't a standard factory mark. It was a crest.
Vincent’s breath caught in his throat. He looked up, his eyes locking onto his uncle with a look of pure, unadulterated hatred.
The crest belonged to Henry’s private hunting estate in Wisconsin.
Henry had locked the door.
Before Vincent could speak, the heavy oak doors of the dining room burst open.
Three men in dark raincoats walked in. They were soaking wet, their faces obscured by the shadows of the hallway.
The man in the front lowered his collar. A jagged, red scar ran down the side of his neck.
May you like
He pulled a silenced pistol from his coat pocket and pointed it directly at Lily.
“Evening, Henry,” the scarred man said, his voice like grinding gravel. “You missed our final payment.”
