Chapter 3 - Reverse the History
Rowan left Lily under the watchful guard of two armed, off-duty private security contractors he had hired within an hour of arriving at the hospital. He ordered them explicitly: *No one enters this room without my voice authorization. If Vanessa Hayes approaches this floor, draw your weapons.*
It was midnight when Rowan’s Mercedes pulled through the heavy iron gates of the Hayes estate. The sprawling limestone mansion, usually a sanctuary of warmth and prestige, looked like a tomb against the moonless night.
He did not turn on the interior lights. Rowan walked silently up the sweeping marble staircase, his footsteps muffled by the thick Persian runner. He bypassed the master suite entirely and climbed to the third floor—to the attic study where Clara’s personal belongings had been boxed up after her funeral.
Vanessa had offered to donate Clara’s things months ago, claiming it would "help Rowan heal." Rowan had agreed, but Elena had secretly moved six heavy plastic containers up to the attic instead of putting them on the donation truck.
Rowan flicked on his flashlight, its harsh white beam cutting through the dust motes dancing in the cold air. He found the bins labeled *Clara: Personal Files 2021-2022*.
He knelt, his knees popping in the quiet room, and popped the lid off the first bin.
Folders. Sketchbooks. Clara’s handwritten journals.
Rowan opened Clara’s black leather-bound planner from two years ago. He flipped directly to the pages of November—the month she died.
The handwriting on the pages changed dramatically in the final three weeks of her life. Clara’s neat, elegant cursive had become jagged, frantic, pressed so hard into the paper that the ink bled through to the next page.
*Nov 8: Discrepancy in the trust ledger. $4.2 million rerouted through an LLC named 'Aegis Horizon'. Signature is a digital forgery of my maiden name.*
*Nov 12: Hired David Vance at Vance Financial to audit the anomaly. He claims it's a technical glitch from the bank merger. I don't believe him. He wouldn't look me in the eye.*
Rowan’s breath caught in his throat. *David Vance.*
Vanessa’s maiden name was Vance.
When Vanessa had married Rowan, she had claimed to be an estranged orphan, with no living relatives, having changed her surname years ago. She had never mentioned a David Vance.
Rowan turned the page, his pulse drumming in his temples.
*Nov 19: It’s not David alone. David has a sister. Vanessa Vance. She isn't an architect, she isn't an old classmate—she was the junior compliance officer at the firm handling my family trust. She accessed my personal security questions. She knows everything about our family.*
*Nov 21: Tonight. Meeting David at the Blackwood Overlook. I have the bank records proving the embezzlement. If they don't return the stolen funds to Rowan's company accounts, I am taking this directly to the federal prosecutor.*
That was the last entry. November 21st was the night Clara’s car plunged through the guardrail into Blackwood Creek.
Rowan lowered the journal, his hands shaking with an icy, terrifying clarity.
Clara hadn't died from reckless driving in a rainstorm. She hadn't suffered from prenatal depression. She was lured to Blackwood Overlook by David Vance, and her brakes had been tampered with to silence her.
And Vanessa Vance hadn't arrived at Clara’s funeral to comfort a grieving widower out of the goodness of her heart. She had arrived to finish what she and her brother had started.
A floorboard creaked outside the attic door.
Rowan immediately switched off the flashlight, plunging the space into absolute blackness. He stood up, melting into the shadows beside a tall oak armoire, his muscles coiling like a predator's.
A soft beam of light slid under the door. The brass knob turned with agonizing slowness.
The door swung inward. Vanessa stood in the doorway, illuminated by the glow of her smartphone. She had changed into black leggings and an oversized cashmere sweater. Her hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, her face sharp, cold, and devoid of any domestic warmth.
She walked straight to a ventilation grate on the far wall, dropped to her knees, and pulled a butter knife from her pocket. She unscrewed the vent cover, reached her arm deep inside, and pulled out a small, heavy metal lockbox.
"Looking for this?" Rowan’s voice sliced through the darkness like a butcher’s blade.
Vanessa gasped, dropping the lockbox. It hit the floorboards with a dull clang. She spun around, aiming the flashlight beam directly into Rowan's face.
Rowan stepped forward into the light, his expression carved from granite, Clara’s journal held loosely in his left hand.
Vanessa recovered her composure with terrifying speed. She didn't scream. She didn't drop her gaze. Instead, a venomous, amused smirk curled the corners of her lips.
"You shouldn't be here, Rowan," she said, her voice dropping all pretense of the sweet, supportive wife. "You should be at the hospital playing the devoted father to that little mistake."
"Her name is Lily," Rowan said, his voice deadly low. "And you threw her off a balcony."
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"I missed," Vanessa shrugged, her eyes glinting in the pale phone light. "That interfering old cow got lucky. But luck runs out, Rowan. Always does."
***
