Whispered Memories

The evening light slanted through the stained-glass windows of the Hayes mansion, painting fractured rainbows on the marble floors. Lottie lingered by the grand staircase, fingers brushing lightly along the polished banister, her gaze fixed on the delicate figure of Grace seated on the settee below. Grace's shoulders were slightly hunched, her fingers absentmindedly twisting the hem of her silk blouse as she stared into the middle distance, the glass of water on the side table untouched, its surface trembling faintly with every uneven breath she drew.

"Do you remember the night she arrived, Mother?" Lottie's voice was soft, almost tender, but it carried a subtle edge, a sharpened thread meant to pull at old seams. The words fell like pebbles into a still pond, sending ripples through the air.

Grace's head jerked up, startled. For a moment, confusion flickered in her eyes, then a shadow of something else—fear, perhaps, or dawning realization. "Why… why would you ask that, darling?" Her voice trembled, the polished elegance fraying at the edges. Her hand moved as if to smooth her hair but faltered midway, fingers curling into her palm, knuckles tight against ivory skin.

Lottie moved with feline grace, descending the steps, each heel-click measured and slow. The hem of her dress brushed softly against the polished wood, whispering with each step. She paused beside the settee, resting a hand lightly on the carved wood, her fingers cool against the varnish. "You used to tell me how you couldn't sleep that night. How the storm rattled the windows and how Evelyn wouldn't stop crying."

Grace's breath hitched; her fingers tightened in the fabric until her knuckles paled. "That was years ago," she whispered, eyes darting away as though the memory might be hiding in the corners of the room. "Why dig up old ghosts?" Her voice wavered, and Lottie caught the faint quiver in her jaw, the barely perceptible tremor in her lower lip.

A faint smile ghosted across Lottie's lips, almost a caress of warmth but never quite touching her eyes. "Sometimes ghosts dig themselves up, Mother." Her voice slipped through the air like a cool blade.

From the doorway, Evelyn watched, her chest constricting, breath shallow and ragged. The desperate thrum of panic pounded in her ears as she took a half-step forward—then stopped, her fingers curling around the edge of the doorframe until they blanched. She could see Grace's trembling shoulders, the way her mother's head dipped, the silent shudder rippling through her. Lottie's voice—soft, relentless—was a blade carving through the still air.

Grace swallowed hard, her throat bobbing visibly. "I—I remember… Robert brought her in." Her voice broke on a sharp exhale, fingers trembling as they reached for the crystal glass on the table. The ice clinked softly, a delicate, betraying sound. "She was so small. Wrapped in a blanket. And Robert said… he said it was the only way."

Lottie's lashes lowered, hiding the flicker of satisfaction that sparked there. She settled gracefully onto the armrest, her fingers brushing lightly across Grace's shoulder, the silk of her blouse cool beneath her touch. "Funny, isn't it, how memories shift?" she murmured, her tone velvet-lined steel. "Sometimes I wonder if we remember what happened, or what we were told to remember."

Grace flinched as though struck, the glass slipping from her fingers and landing on the rug with a muted thud. Her breath hitched again, the ragged edge of a sob curling in her throat. She pressed a shaking hand to her lips, eyes wide and glistening, her pulse thrumming visibly at her neck. The delicate lines around her mouth crumpled inward, as if decades of practiced poise were caving all at once. Her shoulders quivered, a soft, broken whimper escaping despite her effort to swallow it back.

In the hall, Evelyn forced her breath to steady, her heart hammering in her chest. She took one trembling step backward, then another, as if the floor itself had turned traitor beneath her feet. Her nails dug crescent moons into her palms, her mind a frenzied tangle of plans, distractions, escape routes. Her back hit the wall, cool against her shoulder blades, grounding her just enough to keep her legs from buckling.

At that moment, Mason's voice crackled softly in Lottie's earpiece. "We've pulled up the missing-child reports from that year," he murmured, a current of quiet triumph threading his words. "There's a match we need to talk about."

Lottie's eyes flickered with a glint of light, but her face remained composed, the faintest tilt of her lips suggesting nothing more than a daughter's concern. She rose smoothly, brushing her hand over Grace's trembling fingers, lingering just long enough to feel the cold, damp skin. "You should rest, Mother," she murmured, voice soft as falling ash. "You look tired."

Grace clutched at her wrist with sudden desperation, her grip surprisingly strong. "Lottie," she breathed, the syllables cracking, raw with something between terror and pleading. "Tell me… tell me this isn't true."

Lottie stilled. For a heartbeat, something flickered across her face—guilt, or perhaps a shadow of it. She bent, pressing a soft kiss to Grace's forehead, the cool touch of her lips lingering like a promise half-made. "You'll know soon, Mother," she whispered. "We all will."

Grace sagged back, breath trembling, tears slipping unchecked down her cheeks, catching in the hollow of her throat. Her fingers fumbled blindly at the fabric of the settee, seeking anchor where none remained.

Upstairs, Leo leaned over a stack of old family albums spread across the floor. His brow furrowed as he traced his finger along the edges of a photograph—Grace, radiant, cradling a baby with dark curls and bright, wide eyes. But there was something odd in the framing, a slight blur at the edges, a hand cropped out of the shot, a shadow that didn't belong. Leo's pulse quickened as he snapped a photo with his phone, sending it to Lottie with a single message: "There's something off about this."

Meanwhile, Amy paced the library, clutching her phone to her chest. Her nerves jangled in her skin, her heart thudding a nervous tattoo. She glanced at the stacks of yearbooks, the old class photos, and squeezed her eyes shut, drawing in a sharp, shaky breath. Mason's earlier words echoed in her ears: "Look into the social ties. Who was close to Robert back then?"

With trembling fingers, Amy dialed Lottie. "I'm on it," she whispered when the call connected, her voice thin but determined. "I'm going to find out what they're hiding."

In the shadows, Evelyn moved with brittle grace, her thoughts a tangled snarl of desperation. She clenched her jaw, forcing her breathing to steady. Get ahead of this, she ordered herself, teeth gritted. Distract, reassure, buy time. She darted toward the study, her heels whispering over the rug, the faint scuff of leather on silk.

Inside, Grace remained frozen, clutching the blurred photograph from the album Leo had left earlier. Her fingers traced the outline of the baby's face, the blurred corner, the unmistakable weight of something wrong. A faint whisper tore free from her throat: "This… isn't the child they promised me." The words cracked the silence like a whip, splintering the air.

Outside the room, Lottie paused, her hand resting on the doorframe. A muscle ticked in her jaw; her heart thudded once, hard and sharp, before settling into a cold, steady rhythm. She could hear Grace's quiet sobs, the jagged rhythm of grief laced with disbelief. For the first time, something inside her wavered.

But only for a moment.

A soft knock at the window startled Evelyn as she rifled through a locked drawer. She whipped around, heart in her throat—only to see Mason's reflection in the glass, his phone raised, a single message displayed: "We're watching."

Evelyn's fingers curled around the stack of documents, her nails biting into the paper's edge. She exhaled a shaking breath, whispering to herself, "This game isn't over yet." Her reflection in the dark glass stared back, wild-eyed and feral, a queen in a crumbling castle—still clinging to the crown.

Down the hall, Lottie's phone buzzed. She turned it over slowly in her palm, watching the glow bloom across the screen.

Leo: "The photo—there's a hidden figure. I'm enhancing it now."

Her fingers tightened ever so slightly, the faintest tremor of anticipation licking up her spine. She raised her gaze, eyes cool and sharp as she watched the last traces of sunlight fade from the stained glass, the mansion slipping deeper into dusk.

Evelyn's breath shuddered out as she sagged briefly against the desk, her pulse pounding at her temples. Her lips parted, drawing in one shallow, shaky gulp of air after another. Across the room, the faint flicker of a candle caught in the mirror, its thin flame shivering in the draft, casting long, jittery shadows on the wall.

On the floor below, Grace finally rose to her feet, her movements slow and unsteady. She crossed to the window, her hands trembling as she parted the heavy drapes, gazing out into the falling dark. Her reflection floated in the glass—drawn, pale, eyes hollowed by confusion and loss. And beyond it, barely visible in the twilight, Lottie stood at the far edge of the lawn, phone pressed to her ear, her silhouette still, composed, the wind teasing faint strands of hair from her braid.

Grace's fingers pressed to the cold glass. "What have we done," she murmured, the words slipping like breath, carried away by the night. Her knees weakened, a tremor running through her spine, but she held herself upright, just barely, as if the window itself was the only thing keeping her from breaking.

And across the room, the faintest creak of a floorboard warned Evelyn—just as Lottie's voice, soft as a knife's whisper, sounded behind her.

"Looking for something, sister?"