Chapter 247

Emilia's POV

I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the wall. My hands wouldn't stop shaking.

The butler's voice kept replaying in my head. "That night... the laboratory... someone was there..."

Too specific. Way too fucking specific.

I stood up, walked to the window. The pre-dawn darkness pressed against the glass. My reflection stared back—pale, hollow-eyed.

"If it was just fever," I whispered to myself, "he wouldn't have mentioned that exact night."

And Eileen. She'd appeared right when I was about to give him water. Right at that perfect moment to stop me.

My stomach twisted.

I pressed my forehead against the cool glass. Think. Think clearly.

The storage room. That day when Eileen went looking for mint leaves. That disgusting slime creature of hers had reacted to something. I'd seen its tentacles waving frantically before she grabbed it.

"What did it find?" I breathed against the window, fogging the glass.

My heart was pounding now. Hard, irregular beats that made my chest hurt.

I walked back to my vanity, sat down. Looked at myself in the mirror. The woman staring back looked ten years older than yesterday.

"The butler's been with the family forty years," I said quietly. "He's careful. Loyal to Marcus."

But what if Eileen had gotten to him somehow? What if she'd convinced him to play along?

No. No, that didn't make sense. The butler wouldn't betray the family. Unless...

Unless she had evidence.

My hands gripped the edge of the vanity. The wood felt solid under my palms, grounding me.

"She can't know," I told my reflection. "There's no way she could know."

But my voice sounded weak even to my own ears.

---

I couldn't sleep. By the time dawn broke, I'd replayed every detail a hundred times.

The butler collapsing—too theatrical?

Eileen appearing—too convenient?

The water glass shattering—too perfect?

I stood up, paced across my room. Five steps to the window. Turn. Five steps to the door. Turn.

My mind kept circling back to one possibility I didn't want to face.

"If the butler was faking it..." I stopped mid-step. "Then they were baiting me."

My mouth went dry.

I walked to my dresser, poured water from the pitcher with trembling hands. Took a sip. It tasted like metal.

But why would the butler agree to that? What could Eileen possibly offer him?

I set the glass down too hard. Water sloshed over the rim.

"Unless she already has proof," I whispered.

That slime. Moby. It had been so agitated in the storage room. What if it had found something? Some trace I'd missed?

I sat down heavily on my bed. My legs felt weak.

Twenty years. I'd been so careful for twenty years.

---

I was heading downstairs for breakfast when I heard Father's voice from the study.

I stopped. Something in his tone made me freeze.

"What? A box of Evelyn's belongings in the warehouse?"

My heart stopped. Just stopped completely for a second.

I moved closer to the door, pressing myself against the wall. My breath came shallow and quick.

"Inside there's... what did you say? An old electronic device?" Father's voice continued. "Looks like a backup recording device?"

The floor tilted under my feet.

No.

No no no no no.

"You're certain?" Father asked. "When did the staff find this?"

I couldn't hear the response. Blood was rushing in my ears too loud.

Backup recorder. Evelyn had a backup.

I turned and walked—no, ran—back upstairs. My legs felt like jelly but I forced them to move.

---

I slammed my bedroom door, locked it. Leaned against it, gasping.

"Impossible," I said out loud. "I destroyed her recorder. I smashed it to pieces."

But my hands were shaking so badly I had to clasp them together.

I'd been so sure. That night, after Evelyn died, I'd found her primary recording device and destroyed it. Watched the pieces scatter.

But a backup?

I walked to the window, looked toward the warehouse district visible in the distance. Morning mist clung to the buildings, making them look ghostly.

If that recorder existed... if it had our conversations...

My conversations with Evelyn. About Serena. About that night in the laboratory. About the research notes I'd taken. About everything.

"They'll know," I whispered. "Everyone will know."

I pressed my hands against the window sill. The wood felt rough under my palms.

Think. Analyze this clearly.

If the recorder exists, I need to destroy it before anyone else finds it.

But—

I turned away from the window, started pacing again.

"This is too convenient," I said to the empty room. "Right after the butler incident? Right after Eileen started suspecting me?"

Five steps. Turn. Five steps. Turn.

"It could be a trap."

My rational mind was screaming that at me. This was too perfectly timed. Too obvious.

But what if it wasn't? What if that recorder really existed and I did nothing?

I stopped in the middle of the room. My reflection caught in the vanity mirror—wild-eyed, desperate.

"If I go to the warehouse, they might be waiting," I said slowly. "But if I don't go, and it's real..."

I couldn't finish the thought.

---

I spent the next hour pacing. Thinking. Weighing options.

Option one: Go to the warehouse immediately. Destroy the recorder before anyone else finds it. Risk: It's a trap. They're waiting for me. I walk right into their hands.

Option two: Stay here. Do nothing. Act innocent. Risk: The recorder is real. They find it. Everything I've built for twenty years collapses.

I sat on my bed, head in my hands.

"Eileen already suspects me," I muttered. "The butler thing proved that."

But suspicion wasn't proof. She didn't have real evidence, or she would have confronted me already.

This recorder, though...

I stood up abruptly. Walked to my closet.

"I can't risk it," I said firmly. "I can't risk that recorder existing."

Even if it was a trap. Even if they were waiting.

I had to know.

---

I changed into simple clothes. Dark jeans, plain jacket. Nothing memorable.

Found a hat and sunglasses in my drawer. Put them on, checked myself in the mirror.

Just another woman running errands. Nothing suspicious.

I grabbed my car keys, hands still shaking slightly.

Took a deep breath. Then another.

"You've come this far," I told my reflection. "You can't turn back now."

---

The drive to the warehouse felt endless and too short at the same time.

I took the long route, checking my mirrors constantly. No one following. At least, no one obvious.

Classical music played softly on the radio. Mozart. It should have been calming.

Instead, my fingers gripped the steering wheel so tight they ached.

I thought about Serena. About that night twenty years ago.

"If you're watching from wherever you are," I whispered, "forgive me."

But I knew she wouldn't. Couldn't.

I'd made my choice that night. Taken those research notes and run while she suffocated in toxic fumes.

And I'd make the same choice now.

The warehouse district came into view. Gray buildings, mostly empty this time of day.

I pulled into a side street, parked where I could watch the main entrance.

My heart was hammering. My palms were slick with sweat.

This could be a trap. Probably was a trap.

But I was out of options.

I'd gone too far, done too much, sacrificed too much to let it all fall apart now.

I reached for the door handle.

"No going back," I said quietly.

Then I stepped out of the car and walked toward the warehouse, every nerve screaming danger, but my feet moving forward anyway.

Because I'd learned long ago—sometimes you have to walk into the fire to keep your secrets from burning you alive.