Chapter 116: Dead

Cecilia

I turned around and saw her.

An older woman stood a few feet down the hallway, her hands clasped in front of her apron.

"Mrs. Chen," Arthur said, his voice immediately shifting from the soft warmth he'd been using with me to something more controlled, more careful. His arm stayed around my waist, but I felt him tense slightly. "Is everything alright?"

Mrs. Chen—the housekeeper, I remembered now, the woman who'd been taking care of Black Peak Estate since before I'd arrived here as a child—opened her mouth, then closed it again, her eyes darting between Arthur and me with obvious uncertainty.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, Mr. Winston," she said finally, her voice quiet and strained in a way I'd never heard from her before. "But there's... there's a situation downstairs that requires your attention."

Something in her tone made my stomach drop. Arthur must have heard it too, because his expression shifted into something more alert, more focused.

"What kind of situation?" he asked, his voice calm but with an edge that suggested he already suspected the answer wouldn't be good.

Mrs. Chen's eyes flicked to me again, and I saw her hesitate, clearly torn between whatever she'd been told to say and her instinct to protect me from something.

"Perhaps Miss Locke should rest," she said carefully, addressing Arthur rather than me. "She's been through quite a lot, and—"

"I'm fine," I interrupted, pulling away from Arthur slightly to look at her directly. "Mrs. Chen, what's wrong? What's happening downstairs?"

She looked at Arthur, silently asking for guidance, and I felt a flash of irritation cut through my confusion. Whatever was happening, whatever they were all trying to protect me from, I was tired of being treated like I was too fragile to handle reality.

"Arthur," I said, my voice coming out sharper than I intended. "Tell her to just say it. Whatever it is, I want to know."

Arthur studied my face for a long moment, and I could see him weighing his options, trying to decide whether to send me back to the bedroom or let me face whatever was waiting downstairs.

Finally, he nodded at Mrs. Chen. "Tell us."

Mrs. Chen took a breath, her hands twisting in her apron. "The police are here, Mr. Winston. Detective Clark—the one who was here last night—she's asking to speak with both of you."

Police.

The word landed like a stone in my chest, heavy and cold, and suddenly that flash of memory from earlier—the dark shape in the doorway, the paralyzing fear, the sense of being unable to move or scream—came rushing back with a clarity that made my knees go weak.

"Police?" I heard myself say, my voice sounding distant and strange. "Why would the police be here?"

Arthur's arm tightened around me, steadying me.

"Ceci," he said gently, his hand coming up to cup my face. "Why don't you go back to the bedroom and rest. I'll handle this—"

"No." The word came out fierce and certain. "No, I'm not going back to the bedroom. I'm not hiding while you deal with whatever this is." I pulled away from him, standing on my own despite the way my legs were shaking. "I want to see the police. Now."

"Ceci—"

"Now, Arthur." I looked at him, and I could feel something shifting in my chest, some wall starting to crack.

He stared at me for a long moment, and I could see the war playing out behind his eyes—his instinct to protect me battling against his knowledge that I deserved the truth, that I was strong enough to handle whatever was coming.

Finally, he nodded, his expression settling into something resigned and sad. "Okay. But I'm coming with you. Darling, remember what we said before. I’ll protect you."

"Okay," I agreed, and took his hand, threading our fingers together in a gesture that was as much for my own comfort as his.

Detective Clark was waiting in the foyer, her expression grave and professional, and beside her stood a uniformed officer I didn't recognize.

They both straightened when they saw us descending the stairs, and something in their posture—the careful way they held themselves, the sympathetic cast to their features—made my heart start to pound.

"Mr. Winston, Miss Locke," Detective Clark said, her voice gentle in a way that immediately set off alarm bells in my head. "Thank you for coming down. I'm sorry to disturb you, but there's been a development that I needed to inform you of immediately."

"What kind of development?" Arthur asked, his voice steady despite the way his hand tightened around mine.

Detective Clark's eyes moved to me, and I saw her take a breath, steeling herself. "Miss Locke, I'm afraid I have some very difficult news. It's about your mother."

The world seemed to tilt slightly, and I felt Arthur's arm come around my waist, steadying me before I'd even consciously registered that my knees were going weak.

"What about her?" I managed, my voice coming out smaller than I intended.

Detective Clark's expression softened with genuine sympathy. "I'm very sorry to have to tell you this, but your mother—Evelyn Gray—took her own life early this morning. She was found in her cell at approximately six AM by the duty officer. They attempted resuscitation, but she was pronounced dead at the scene."

The words hit me like a physical blow, each one landing with brutal clarity even as my brain tried desperately to reject them, to make them mean something other than what they obviously meant.

Dead.

My mother was dead.

And with that thought, the wall in my mind didn't just crack—it shattered completely.

Everything came flooding back in a rush that was almost violent in its intensity: The engagement party.

The wine that had tasted like my father's love, like connection to something I'd lost. The growing drowsiness that I'd attributed to emotion and exhaustion.

Waking up to find Matthias—my mother's companion, the man she'd brought into our home—on top of me, his hands tearing at my dress while my body refused to respond, refused to fight back.

Alice's scream. Max and Carter and Arthur bursting through the door. The sound of Arthur's fist connecting with Matthias's face over and over until the man went limp and unconscious.

My mother standing in the hallway afterward, her face going through those calculations as she'd tried to figure out how to spin what had happened, how to shift blame away from herself. Her voice, shrill and defensive: She must have led him on, must have invited him up here—

"Ceci?" Arthur's voice sounded far away, muffled, like I was hearing it through water. "Ceci, baby, look at me—"

The room was spinning, tilting, and I could feel my legs giving out beneath me even as I tried desperately to stay upright, to stay present, to not let this break me.

My mother was dead.

The woman who'd given birth to me, who'd abandoned me when I was nine, who'd come back into my life only to try to orchestrate my assault—she was dead.

And I didn't know how to feel about that. Relief? Grief? Rage?

"Arthur," I heard myself say, my voice sounding strange and distant. "Arthur, she—my mother—"

The world went black before I could finish the sentence.

Only those words lingered in the darkness: Your mother took her own life.