Chapter 76 The bitter drought
The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, leaving the suburb draped in a thick, suffocating velvet. In our kitchen, the overhead light flickered—a stuttering neon tube that cast long, sickly shadows across the floor. My mother and I sat in a silence so heavy it felt like a physical weight on our chests. The gift basket from Marcus Blackwood still sat on the table, its cellophane wrap glinting like a shark’s tooth in the dim light.
We were waiting for the sound of a rusted engine. We were waiting for the stumble of a man who had spent a decade trying to be a saint, only to fall back into the skin of a sinner the moment a ghost from Cape Town knocked on his door.
The front door creaked open, and I surged to my feet, my heart leaping into my throat. But it wasn't the heavy, uneven tread of my father. It was Maya. She was still in her work clothes, her blazer slung over her arm, her face etched with the exhaustion of a long day—until she saw our expressions.
She stopped in the doorway, her eyes darting between my tear-stained face and our mother’s rigid, prayerful posture. "What? What happened? Is it Victor? Did something happen in Istanbul?"
"Victor is awake, Maya," I whispered, my voice sounding like it was coming from a great distance. "He’s... he’s okay. He called me."
Maya let out a breath of relief, dropping her bag on the sofa. "Then why do you both look like you’re at a wake? Mom? Why are the lights low?"
"Mr. Blackwood was here," my mother said, her voice a hollow rasp.
Maya froze. "Marcus? Here? In this house?"
"He brought a basket," I said, gesturing toward the table. "He acted like he wanted to be a grandfather. But Dad saw him, Maya. It wasn't a meeting; it was a collision. Dad knew him. He talked about a fire twenty-eight years ago. He talked about Marcus 'preventing the truth.' He threatened him, Maya. I’ve never seen Dad like that. He looked... murderous."
Maya sank onto the chair next to the basket, her brow furrowing as she tried to piece the fragments together. "A fire? Twenty-eight years ago? That would be 1998. We were barely born, El. What could Dad possibly have to do with a man like Marcus Blackwood in Cape Town?"
"We don't know," I cried, pacing the narrow strip of linoleum. "Mom won't tell me, and Dad... Dad went out with John. Mrs. Ndlovu saw them. He’s gone back to the drink, Maya. He couldn't handle whatever ghost Marcus brought into this room."
"John?" Maya’s voice turned sharp with alarm. "No. Not after ten years. He wouldn't."
"He did," my mother said, her eyes fixed on the flickering light. "When the past catches up to a man like your father, he doesn't run. He tries to drown. He thinks if he can just get his blood quiet enough, the memories will stop screaming."
"But what is the puzzle?" Maya asked, looking at us both. "Think about it. Victor is a Blackwood. We are... we are who we are. If there was a fire, and Marcus Blackwood was involved, and Dad was a 'casualty'... why is Victor here? Why did fate put him in Elena’s path?"
"That’s what I asked," I said, my hand instinctively resting on my stomach. "Dad said if the truth comes out, this baby won't be an heir. It will be a confession. Maya, what if Victor isn't who they say he is? Or what if we aren't who we think we are?"
"It doesn't make sense," Maya muttered, rubbing her temples. "If they were enemies, why would Marcus come here with fruit and honey? Unless... unless he was checking to see if Dad was still alive. Unless the NDA wasn't about Victor’s health, but about keeping us away from the truth."
We sat there, three women circling a mystery that felt like a sinkhole beneath our floorboards. We tried to mix the pieces—the hospital in Cape Town, the legal threats, the sudden appearance of a billionaire in a township—but the more we poked at the puzzle, the more terrifying the picture became.
The clock struck 9:00 PM. Then 10:00 PM.
The silence was shattered by the shrill, jarring ring of my mother’s cell phone. It vibrated against the wooden table, the sound amplified in the quiet house. We all jumped, our eyes locked on the screen. It was an unknown mobile number.
My mother picked it up with a trembling hand. "Hello? Elias?"
She went silent. Her face, already pale, turned a translucent, ghostly white. Her grip on the phone tightened until her knuckles were ghostly peaks. "What? Where? Which one?"
"Mom?" I whispered, moving toward her. "Mom, what is it?"
She didn't answer me. She was listening to the voice on the other end, her eyes widening with a primal, suffocating fear. "Is he breathing? Did the doctors get there? Yes... yes, we are coming. We are coming now!"
She pressed 'end' and looked at us, her chest heaving as if she had just run a marathon. Tears began to spill over, fat and heavy, splashing onto her blouse.
"That was a woman," she gasped, her voice breaking into a sob. "A lady from a local pub over in Zone 4. She said your father... he was sitting there with John. He had one drink. Just one."
"And?" Maya prompted, her voice tight with dread.
"She said he collapsed before he could even finish the glass," my mother wailed, the sound echoing off the kitchen walls. "She said he started foaming at the mouth, his body jerking... she thinks... she thinks he was poisoned, Elena! She said someone was seen hanging around their table before they sat down. The ambulance has already taken him to Baragwanath Hospital!"
"Poisoned?" I screamed, the word hitting me like a physical blow. "No! No, that’s impossible! Who would—"
But the answer was already sitting on our dining table in a wicker basket. The realization was a cold blade in my heart. Marcus Blackwood had come with gifts. Marcus Blackwood had looked at my father like he was a loose thread that needed to be burned away.
"We have to go!" Maya shouted, grabbing her car keys and her bag. "Now! El, get the coats!"
I didn't move for a split second, my mind racing. Victor was in Istanbul, recovering from a surgery that was supposed to save our lives. My father was in an ambulance, fighting for a life that someone had just tried to steal. And the baby... the heir... the confession... was the only thing holding me together.
"Move, Elena!" my mother cried, pulling me toward the door.
We scrambled out of the house, the night air biting and cold. As Maya fumbled with the car locks, I looked back at the dark windows of our home. My father’s words from earlier that day returned to me, a terrifying prophecy delivered in a whiskey-soaked premonition:
“The Blackwoods have a way of digging up the dead just to see if there’s any gold left in the coffin.”
As the engine roared to life and we sped toward the hospital, the sirens in the distance felt like they were screaming my name. The puzzle was no longer a mystery; it was a crime scene. And I was terrified that by the time we reached the hospital, the last person who knew the truth would be silenced forever.