Chapter 6 - The Weight of Seven Years
The change in the house did not go unnoticed. By the end of the week, the staff—housekeepers who had operated in hushed tones for years—began to speak at normal volumes. The gardener started planting roses again, despite Nathan’s previous decree that nothing new should grow.
But the shift brought its own turmoil. Nathan began having nightmares. They weren't about the crash anymore; they were about the years he had wasted. He dreamt of Claire walking through the rooms, asking him why he had locked the doors, why he had turned the mansion into a museum of her absence.
He woke up on Saturday sweating, the watch on his nightstand ticking like a bomb. 11:44.
He stumbled into the kitchen at 3:00 a.m. expecting it to be empty. Instead, he found Evie sitting at the table, a map of the valley spread out in front of her. She was tracing the roads, her brow furrowed.
"What are you doing?" he rasped.
She looked up. "Looking at Hawthorne Ridge."
Nathan felt the air leave his lungs. "Don't."
"The police report said she skidded on ice. But it was an unusually warm October that year, Nathan. I grew up in these mountains. I know the weather here. It doesn't ice over on Hawthorne Ridge unless there’s been a freeze for three days prior."
Nathan sat down heavily. "The police were thorough."
"The police were pressured," she said, tapping a spot on the map. "Julian was the one who handled the estate’s legal matters even then. He was the one who talked to the insurance adjusters."
Nathan’s stomach churned. "Are you saying my brother-in-law had something to do with the accident?"
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"I’m saying that Julian Mercer is a man who hates wasting money," she said, her voice hard as flint. "And he’s a man who has always wanted this house. I’m not saying he pushed her off the road. I’m saying he might have made sure there was no reason to look for a real cause."
Nathan stared at the map. The museum of his grief had been built on a foundation of trust, but as he looked at the map, he felt the foundation cracking.
