The realization that I was fighting generations of abuse, channeled through a vengeful spirit and a compliant family, filled me with a cold resolve. Thorne’s apartment, with its towering bookshelves and scent of aged paper, became my sanctuary and my command center. My leg, still numb with that strange chill, felt less like a burden and more like a permanent reminder of the battle ahead.
“The Ashwoods aren’t just rich,” Thorne explained one morning, poring over a local property ledger. “They’re landowners. And the deeper I dig into their deeds, the more convoluted it becomes. Shell corporations, anonymous trusts… it’s a labyrinth designed to obscure.”
He pushed a thick binder across the table to me. “I’ve cross-referenced all the property transfers surrounding the Ashwood mansion for the last fifty years. Every time a ‘disappearance’ occurred, within months, a flurry of complex real estate transactions would follow. Always routed through the same individual.”
My eyes scanned the documents, tracing the same name repeated over and over again. “Mr. Bartholomew Finch. ‘Barty’ Finch.”
“The very one,” Thorne confirmed, his voice tight. “He’s the Ashwoods’ go-to man. A prominent local real estate agent, outwardly jovial, community-minded. But beneath the facade, he’s a spider, spinning a web of legal deception for them.”
“What kind of deception?” I asked, my blood beginning to boil.
“After the last ‘disappearance’ two decades ago—a woman named Beatrice, Silas’s aunt by marriage—Finch meticulously restructured the Ashwood property holdings,” Thorne explained. “He created a series of interlocking shell corporations, ostensibly for ‘tax benefits,’ but effectively making it impossible to trace ownership or inquire into the house’s true history. Any official inquiry into the mansion would hit a legal brick wall, obscuring Beatrice’s fate, and all the others.”
He slammed his hand on the table. “He made sure no one could connect the dots. No one could ask too many questions about why so many Ashwood wives vanished without a trace, leaving no property claims, no legal challenges. Their assets simply… disappeared into the house.”
The scale of the cover-up was staggering. Finch wasn’t just a lackey; he was an active enabler, a architect of the family’s dark legacy.
“I need to talk to him,” I stated, the words firm.
Thorne looked at me, concern etched on his face. “Clara, he’s a dangerous man. Not physically, but he controls the paper trail. He’s protected the Ashwoods for decades. He’ll deny everything.”
“He won’t deny it to me,” I replied, standing up, my cast thudding against the floor. “He’s protected them for decades. He doesn’t know what I know now.”
Thorne, seeing the determination in my eyes, reluctantly agreed to come with me. We found Mr. Finch in his brightly lit office, a picture of false cheer. He was a portly man with a florid face and a booming laugh that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Mrs. Beckett! A pleasure, a pleasure!” he exclaimed, extending a hand that I pointedly did not take. “Heard you had a nasty fall. So glad to see you’re recovering.” His gaze flickered to my cast, then to Thorne.
“It wasn’t a fall, Mr. Finch,” I said, my voice steady. “And I’m not here for pleasantries.”
His smile wavered. “Oh? Well, how can good old Barty help you, then?”
“You can start by explaining why you helped the Ashwood family cover up generations of disappearances,” I stated, laying Thorne’s binder on his polished desk, the stack of documents thudding heavily.
Finch’s face went white. The jovial mask shattered. He stammered, “I… I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mrs. Beckett. Property law, it’s very complex. Confidential client matters…”
“Beatrice Ashwood. Martha Ashwood. Evelyn Ashwood,” I listed, watching his eyes dart around nervously. “All women whose assets you helped make disappear, whose fates you ensured remained a secret, buried beneath layers of legal shell corporations. You erased them, Mr. Finch.”
He gulped, tugging at his tie. “I only followed instructions! The Ashwoods are a powerful family! They have expectations!”
“Expectations of what?” Thorne interjected, his voice sharp. “Of silence? Of complicity in abuse?”
Finch slumped back in his chair, his bravado gone. “They… they simply wanted to protect the family name. To avoid scandal.” He wrung his hands. “And there were always… incentives. Substantial ones.”
“And now they want me back,” I pressed, leaning over his desk, my voice a low growl. “For a ‘sacred family duty,’ isn’t that right?”
His head shot up, eyes wide with genuine fear. “How… how did you know that?”
“Tell me, Finch,” I demanded.
He stammered, “They… they’re preparing legal documents. An injunction. Said you have a claim on the property now, as Silas’s wife. A ‘sacred obligation’ to the house. They want to compel your return. They’ve already spoken to Judge Harrison, and Sheriff Brody is… amenable to their concerns.”
The blood drained from my face. They weren’t just discrediting me; they were using the very system I had hoped would protect me to drag me back. Legally.
“They’re going to use your fabricated deeds, aren’t they?” Thorne questioned, his voice full of disgust. “To force her back into that house, to complete Morwen’s binding ritual.”
Finch buried his face in his hands. “I… I just do what I’m told. They’re very persuasive. Powerful.”
“So, they’ll just have the police pick me up?” I asked, a tremor in my voice. “Drag me back to be another ‘disappearing wife’?”
Finch looked up, his eyes pleading. “They say it’s for your own good. To honor the family. To preserve the traditions.” He shuddered. “The house demands obedience, Mrs. Beckett. And when it demands, the Ashwoods… they always obey.”
The words hung in the air, chilling me to the bone. The corrupt enabler had laid bare their plan. They wouldn’t wait for me to heal or disappear. They were coming for me. Legally. And I knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my bones, that I could not let them win. There was only one place to break this cycle, one place to truly fight back. I had to go back to that house.
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