Chapter 8 - The Impossible Bloodline“No.”
Richard’s answer came immediately.
Emily stared at him.
“You knew what she meant.”
“She’s manipulating you.”
“Then tell me why you look terrified.”
Richard looked away.
Emily felt sick.
“Was Charles my grandfather?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
Richard hesitated.
That hesitation was enough.
“You’re not sure.”
“I’m sure Eleanor would never—”
“Never what?”
He stopped.
Emily’s eyes widened.
“You think Charles…”
“No.”
Richard’s face hardened.
“My father was cruel. Controlling. Violent in ways that rarely left bruises.”
He swallowed.
“But I will not accuse him of something that serious without proof.”
Emily stepped back.
Her stomach twisted.
The possibility itself felt poisonous.
Richard continued.
“Victoria wanted to hurt you.”
“She already did.”
“I know.”
Emily looked at the birth certificate.
Father blank.
“What if there’s proof in the journals?”
“Then we find them.”
“You think Victoria will hand them over?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Richard looked toward the passage entrance.
“We search Daniel’s study.”
“That room was cleared years ago.”
“Not completely.”
They emerged into a lower storage corridor just as police entered the west wing.
Victoria was gone.
No one had seen her leave.
Emily spent the next hour giving a statement.
The fountain incident had been witnessed by dozens of guests.
Several had recorded parts of it.
Victoria would face charges.
Richard made no attempt to protect her.
That surprised Emily.
At midnight, the castle was quiet.
Richard led her to Daniel’s old study.
Dust covered the shelves.
A portrait of Daniel Whitmore hung above the fireplace.
Emily studied him.
He looked like Richard, but harder.
Sharper.
His eyes resembled Victoria’s.
“Why did you raise her?”
Richard stared at the portrait.
“Daniel’s wife died when Victoria was five.”
“And after his accident?”
“She had no one.”
Emily looked at him.
“You loved her.”
“Yes.”
“Do you still?”
Richard didn’t answer.
He opened the desk.
Empty.
Then he knelt beside the fireplace.
“What are you looking for?”
“Daniel hid things.”
He pressed one carved panel.
Nothing.
Another.
A click.
A drawer opened beneath the mantel.
Inside was a leather notebook.
Richard froze.
Emily stepped closer.
“Is that one of the journals?”
He nodded.
They opened it.
The first pages contained business notes.
Names.
Dates.
Payments.
Then references to Eleanor.
August 12, 1979.
Eleanor has become dangerous.
August 14.
Father says the child complicates everything.
August 17.
R. still thinks she is leaving willingly.
Richard stopped.
“R. is me.”
Emily read the next line.
He has no idea.
Her pulse quickened.
August 19.
Eleanor asked me to help her escape.
I told Father.
Richard closed his eyes.
“My God.”
Emily kept reading.
August 21.
The child’s father has agreed to help.
August 23.
Father says no one can know the truth of the paternity.
Emily’s hands trembled.
“Keep going.”
Richard turned the page.
One sentence.
If R. ever discovers who Anna’s father is, everything changes.
Emily looked up.
“Why you?”
Richard shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
The next page had been torn out.
And the next.
Twenty pages missing.
Emily stared.
“Victoria took them.”
“Probably.”
Then something slipped from the spine.
A small photograph.
Richard picked it up.
It showed Eleanor beside a young man.
The man’s face had been scratched out.
But on the back was written:
Eleanor and J. — summer 1978.
Emily frowned.
“J?”
Richard stared.
His expression changed.
“What?”
“I know who took this photograph.”
“How?”
“I was there.”
Emily’s heart jumped.
“Then who was J?”
Richard looked at the photo.
“Jonathan Hale.”
Emily blinked.
“Hale?”
“Lady Margaret’s son.”
Emily remembered the elderly woman in the courtyard.
“Where is he?”
Richard’s face darkened.
“He died in 1980.”
“How?”
Richard stared at the scratched-out face.
“He fell from the north tower.”
Emily’s skin went cold.
“Accident?”
“No.”
Richard looked at her.
“My father said it was suicide.”
“And you?”
May you like
Richard’s voice dropped.
“I never believed him.”
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