PART 13 - “Echoes of Her Voice” (Isabelle):

Isabelle sat on the dusty floor of her childhood bedroom, the journal resting open in her lap. Her father's voice echoed in her mind again—"Dangerous. Not what she seemed." The words had haunted her for years, an echo she could never quite shake, like a shadow always lurking just behind her. But now, with the journal in her hands, she was beginning to see what he meant.

The words on the pages were a strange comfort and a cold reminder of the mystery that surrounded Evelyn Bellamy. She ran her fingers over the rough texture of the old leather binding, the same binding her father had likely held in his own hands years ago. How many times had he read this? How many times had he turned away, knowing the truth but never daring to speak it?

Isabelle's mind returned to the tape her father had left behind—the one she had found hidden among his belongings, after his death. He'd never meant for her to hear it, she was sure of that. But it had been her only clue to understanding the wall of silence her family had erected around Evelyn Bellamy's name.

The tape crackled as she rewound it, playing back the grainy voice of her father.

"I'm telling you, Isabelle," his voice, thick with emotion, spoke directly to the recorder, "There are things we don't talk about. Things you'll never understand. Evelyn—Evelyn was... dangerous. She wasn't what she seemed." The words were clipped, as if he was speaking through a clenched jaw. There was a pause, and then a whisper from the background. A woman's voice.

"She never killed her."

Isabelle froze, her heart pounding. She had listened to this tape countless times, but it was the first time she had caught the faint whisper—an almost imperceptible sound. It was as if someone was speaking just out of earshot, yet so close, so intimately entwined with the words her father had left behind.

The whisper—soft, familiar—carried a weight she couldn't ignore. Her mother. It had to be her mother. The tone of the voice was unmistakable, the warmth and the gentleness of it. But why had her mother whispered this? Why had she chosen to say, "She never killed her"? Isabelle had never known her mother to be a part of her father's silence, the ominous barrier that had been built around the Bellamy family legacy.

Could it be that her mother knew the truth all along? Or had she been part of the lie?

The tape hissed, and Isabelle felt a strange sense of disquiet creep through her. She had spent so many years just trying to understand her father's words, his warnings, but this moment felt like a turning point. It wasn't just about Evelyn anymore; it was about her family, her mother, and the truth that had been buried for generations.

A heavy weight settled on Isabelle's chest, and she closed the journal, as if the pages were somehow too heavy to bear. It was one thing to discover a secret. It was another entirely to understand how deep the betrayal ran.

She set the journal aside and turned her attention to the dusty old bookshelf across from her. Books stacked haphazardly, a forgotten relic of her youth. The room was an echo of the past, and the house itself seemed to murmur of secrets long buried beneath its foundations. Isabelle's eyes drifted to the small corner where the attic door had once stood—until she had opened it just the other day, finding the journal. Finding the truth.

No. Not the truth. Not yet.

With a sudden decision, she stood and crossed the room, her hands shaking slightly as she reached for the box her father had left behind. Inside, she'd found photographs and letters, all carefully tucked away as if he had meant to hide them from her. One photograph, in particular, caught her eye—the one of Margaret and her father, their faces so close, their expressions so knowing.

Her fingers brushed over the edges of the photograph. It was as if the faces were staring at her, their silent gazes accusing her of something—something she hadn't yet figured out. Why had her father kept this? Why had he kept them hidden away?

Suddenly, Isabelle couldn't stand it anymore. She needed to know. She needed to understand what had happened. The house, the journal, her father's voice, the whispered words on the tape—they were all pulling her into a vortex of mystery and suspicion, one that she couldn't escape from, no matter how hard she tried.

She had to go to the place where it all began—the Bellamy House. It was the only place that could hold the answers she sought. The house had been abandoned for years, left to decay in the wake of Evelyn's death. Isabelle's heart clenched at the thought of it. Could the answers be hidden there, buried in the same dust and decay that had taken over the family home?

She couldn't stay here any longer. Isabelle knew it was time to face whatever awaited her in that house, wherever it may lead.