Chapter 126. The House of Secrets

Chapter 126. The House of Secrets
Vera's eyes were open to darkness. Her wrist pain where the ropes burn a little in her skin, and her throat was as if she had swallowed smoke. The last thing he remembered was the flash of camera lights at the charity event - smile, whispering - and then suddenly prick on his neck. After that, everything was black.
Now she was lying on a dusty floor, thick and some older with air odor, perhaps. He tried to move, but his stomach pressed against the wooden planks, reminding him of his life inside. He forced himself to straighten, until his eyes were adjusted to a high, dull light coming from the forbidden window.
The room was small and naked. A single wooden door stood opposite to it, paddling from outside. The walls were torn, and the unconscious frescoes marked them - Old Inater, Scratch, perhaps someone else who was trapped in front of him.
His first idea was Raymond. Was he now looking for him? Was he alive? In the last few months there was an endless spiral of betrayal, poison and lies - but his thoughts always stabilized him. He promised to leave him again.
"Raymond ..." that whisper, voice harsh.
A sound came from above - footstaps. Slow, intentionally. She stopped by stopping her breath. The door is open. Two people stepped, both of them wearing black, their faces were hidden under half a mask.
"Where am I?" He demanded, his voice trembling but strong.

One of the men was amazed. "You ask a lot of questions, Mrs. Raymond. Or should we call you Vera Francis?"
His stomach tightened. "who sent you?"
He did not reply. Instead, he dropped something on his feet - a folded piece of paper sealed with a red wax stamp. When he opened it, his heart became sad. It was the crest of Francis.
The same crest who harassed every deal, every danger, every nightmare. "He is dead," he quickly said. "Francis has gone."
The man bowed his head. "Dead male do not sign letters."
They left without another word, closed the door behind them.
Vera drowned against the wall, shaking hands, she exposed the paper. There was a note inside, written in Francis' familiar handwriting - sharp, cool, cruel.
Welcome Home, Vera.
You have finally reached the house that made you - and will bury you.
His breath stopped. "No," he whispered, reading it again and again. Francis was killed. He saw his body. The letter was to be forged. But then, he learned long ago that in his family, death was never an end.
She pushed herself up, scanned the room for anything she could use. His fingers brush against the floorboard. One of them felt loose. She digs on it as long as she reveals a hollow place. Inside, wrapped in a piece of decay of fabric was a small leather bound book.
It was covered at dust and age, but the beginning, carved in the cover,