Chapter 6 - Blood on the White Carpet
The first shot came at 11:42 p.m.
Ruth knew the exact time because she had been staring at the clock, waiting for Poppy's fever medication to work.
The sound cracked through the mansion.
Once.
Then twice.
Then came shouting.
August's voice somewhere downstairs.
"Lock the east wing!"
Ruth ran to the guest-room door.
Walter appeared before she could open it.
"Back inside."
"What happened?"
"Now, Ruth."
Another gunshot.
Poppy woke crying.
Ruth grabbed her.
Walter pushed them toward the bathroom.
"Stay away from the windows."
"Walter—"
"Do it."
He disappeared.
Ruth locked the bathroom door.
Poppy clung to her.
"Mommy?"
"It's okay."
It wasn't.
Heavy footsteps thundered in the hallway.
A crash.
Someone yelled.
Then silence.
Ruth held Poppy so tightly the child complained.
Minutes stretched.
Finally came a knock.
Three times.
"Ruth."
August.
She opened the door.
There was blood on his shirt.
Her stomach dropped.
"You're hurt."
"Not mine."
His face was stone.
"Come downstairs."
"What?"
"The threat is over."
Poppy peeked around Ruth.
August's expression softened instantly.
"You're safe."
"Did bad men come?"
"Yes."
"Did you make them go away?"
August hesitated.
"Yes."
Poppy accepted that.
Children often understood the world more cleanly when adults did not decorate it with lies.
Downstairs, the front hall looked like another house.
A shattered window.
Two guards pressing towels against wounds.
Blood across the white carpet.
Police were not coming.
Ruth realized that quickly.
This was a world where violence was cleaned before sunrise.
A man sat in a chair with his hands tied behind him.
Young.
Terrified.
August approached him.
Ruth stopped halfway down the stairs.
"You shouldn't be here," August said.
"You told me to come down."
"I meant without Poppy."
"I wasn't leaving her upstairs."
The captive looked at Ruth.
Then Poppy.
His face changed.
August noticed.
"Who sent you?"
The man remained silent.
August pulled a chair forward and sat.
His cane rested beside him.
He did not raise his voice.
"Three men entered my home. Two are dead. You're alive because I want a name."
Ruth covered Poppy's ears.
The man looked toward her.
"I don't know."
August leaned closer.
"Wrong answer."
"I swear."
"Who paid you?"
"A middleman."
"Name."
"I never got one."
August stared.
The man's eyes drifted toward Poppy again.
"She wasn't supposed to be here."
The room went still.
August stood.
"Why did you say that?"
The man paled.
"I—"
August grabbed his collar.
"Why did you say that?"
"Vincent said—"
Silence.
Everyone heard it.
The man realized too late.
August released him slowly.
Ruth felt cold.
Vincent.
The smiling man in the conservatory.
August turned toward one of his guards.
"Take him downstairs."
The captive panicked.
"No, wait—"
The men dragged him away.
August's face showed nothing.
Walter stood nearby.
Their eyes met.
A conversation passed without words.
Ruth stepped forward.
"Vincent tried to kill us?"
August looked at Poppy.
"Go upstairs."
"No."
"Ruth."
"No."
She pointed toward the blood.
"My daughter was threatened. Men entered the house. You don't get to protect me by keeping me ignorant."
His voice hardened.
"You want truth?"
"Yes."
"Truth gets people killed."
"So does silence."
That struck him.
Ruth continued.
"Why Poppy?"
August looked away.
"I don't know."
"You think it has something to do with Daniel."
His silence confirmed it.
Walter moved closer.
"August, she should know."
"No."
"She is already involved."
August's hand tightened around the cane.
Finally he looked at Ruth.
"After Daniel disappeared, my father hired private investigators."
"And?"
"Three months after the fire, one found a witness."
Ruth's pulse quickened.
"A dockworker saw someone carry a child out through the north loading door."
"Daniel?"
"We never confirmed it."
"Who was carrying him?"
August's eyes darkened.
"Vincent."
Ruth stared.
"Then Daniel survived."
"Maybe."
"Why didn't Vincent tell you?"
"He said the witness was lying."
"Did you believe him?"
"At the time."
Walter spoke.
"Edmund did not."
August shot him a warning look.
Walter ignored it.
"Mr. Howerin's father began investigating Vincent privately. Six weeks later, Edmund suffered a fatal heart attack."
Ruth felt the room tilt.
"You think Vincent killed your father?"
August said nothing.
Poppy suddenly moved from behind Ruth.
She walked toward the bloodstained carpet.
Everyone watched.
Near the shattered window lay something small.
Poppy bent down.
August's voice sharpened.
"Don't touch—"
Too late.
She lifted a small metal object.
A pendant.
Oval.
Blackened around one edge.
Poppy turned it over.
August stopped breathing.
Walter whispered:
"Dear God."
Ruth looked between them.
"What is it?"
August took the pendant with trembling fingers.
He pressed a hidden clasp.
It opened.
Inside was a tiny photograph.
A woman holding two boys.
One was August.
The younger boy was Daniel.
"This belonged to my mother," August whispered.
"Daniel wore it the night of the fire."
The room fell silent.
One of the dead intruders had carried Daniel's pendant into Howerin House.
Ten years after Daniel disappeared.
Poppy looked up at August.
"The boy isn't dead."
August's eyes snapped toward her.
"What?"
She pointed at the pendant.
"The boy from my dream."
Ruth knelt.
"Poppy, honey—"
"He said he's not dead."
August's face went white.
Poppy continued.
"He said the fire man took him."
Nobody moved.
Finally Walter asked:
"What else did he say?"
May you like
Poppy looked toward the dark staircase.
"He said he's coming home."
