Chapter 3

I didn't hesitate.

Soaking wet and shivering, I flagged down a black car and climbed in without a word. "East Hills. Bowers Manor," I said flatly.

The driver glanced at me—a wrinkled old face like something pressed out of an old newspaper. His voice was dry and raspy.

"You sure you want to go there?"

I nodded.

He didn't ask any more questions. Just said quietly, "Buckle up. The mountain roads up there… get slick. Watch you don't go flying off the edge."

The car sped into the night, slipping past the city lights and heading deep into the countryside.

At 1:20 a.m., we stopped at the base of the mountain.

"You'll have to walk from here," the driver said, eyes still fixed forward. "Two miles up, past the ridge. You'll see it. Not many living souls go there anymore. If you're really going in… just don't look back."

I got out. The door slammed shut behind me. A moment later, the black sedan vanished into the mist and rain.

I stood alone at the start of a narrow, muddy trail.

Rain drifted down from the sky. From deep in the woods came the faint chirps of insects and the rustling of leaves—like whispers brushing past my ear.

A winding stone path stretched upward into the thick fog.

I took a deep breath, clenched my jaw, and stepped forward.

The stones were slick, mud seeping into my shoes. My steps were unsteady, slipping and stumbling my way through the dark.

After nearly an hour, a silhouette emerged through the mist—weathered and fading with age.

The Bowers Manor. My mother's former home.

The iron gate was rusted through. Vines climbed the walls. The overgrown grass reached my waist.

I pushed open the gate. The hinges groaned with a deep creak, like it had just disturbed the silence of the dead.

That sound... it was exactly the same as fifteen years ago.

I stepped into the main hall. It was pitch black—so dark I couldn't see my hand in front of me.

I turned on my phone's flashlight. The beam swept across the room: a dust-covered couch, a cracked wooden table, and a yellowed family portrait still hanging on the wall.

In the photo, I was five years old, curled up in my mother's arms. My father stood beside us in a sharp suit, eyes piercing.

Beneath the frame, a slip of paper was taped to the bottom. I recognized the handwriting instantly—it was my father's.

[Blake, go left, to the study. The letter's in the cabinet.]

I glanced up at the spiral staircase. The old wood creaked faintly overhead, and deep in the darkness, I could almost feel a pair of eyes silently watching.

I steadied my breath and turned toward the study on the first floor.

The door was locked. I shoved it hard—just once—and the rusted iron lock snapped.

Inside, the study was the best-preserved room in the house. The bookshelves were still in order, and the desk sat beneath a dust-covered sheet.

I pulled the cloth away. A wooden box rested on the desk, carved with the Bowers family crest.

I opened it slowly.

Inside were three items: A handwritten letter, a black USB drive, and a bank card labeled: For Blake Only.

My hands trembled as I picked up the envelope.

Blake,

If you're reading this, it means they've driven you all the way to the bottom.

The car crash three years ago—it wasn't an accident. It was a trap.

Your mother and I didn't fall because we were weak. We were betrayed.

Your uncle, Norbert Bowers, started plotting against our family when you were six. He killed your mother and bought off every witness on the force.

I kept digging, but they were watching my every move. I knew I didn't have much time left. So I set up a trust in your name overseas, locked away everything I had. The timer was set: three years.

Today, it unlocks.

Go to the main house basement—your mother left something for you there too.

Take back your name, Blake. You were never meant to be stepped on.

— Dad

I clenched the letter in my fist, jaw so tight I thought my teeth might crack.

The crash. Getting fired. Losing everything. Being thrown out, stripped of my shares—Now it all made sense. These three years weren't bad luck. They were a carefully planned takedown.

Just like they wanted, I fell—one step at a time. Even the love I held onto was trampled into the dirt.

But I was still here.

Blake was back.