Chapter 7: The Confrontation

The grandfather clock’s chimes echoed through the mansion, their deep resonance rattling something primal inside Elliot. Each strike felt like a countdown, a reminder that time was running out—and they were no closer to understanding who was behind the deadly game they had all been forced to play.

The remaining group stood in the parlor, their faces pale, their nerves frayed. Lydia’s lifeless body had been moved to the crypt, though the image of her twisted form lingered in everyone’s minds. Elliot could see it in the way Emma kept wringing her hands, in the sharpness of Madeleine’s tone, in the way Sam kept glancing over his shoulder.

“We can’t keep waiting for someone else to die,” Madeleine said, breaking the tense silence. Her arms were crossed, her expression fierce, but there was a tremor in her voice that betrayed her fear. “We need answers now.”

“And how do you propose we do that?” Sam asked, his voice edging toward hysteria. “We don’t know who’s doing this. It could be any one of us.”

Madeleine’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe we start with you, then.”

“Enough,” Elliot snapped, stepping between them. “Turning on each other isn’t going to help. If we want to survive this, we need to figure out what’s tying us all together.”

Elliot moved toward the table where the photographs Lydia had found were still spread out. He picked one up at random—Emma’s, taken in what appeared to be a hospital room. Her tear-streaked face looked up at someone off-camera, her expression a mixture of anguish and guilt.

“Emma,” Elliot said carefully, holding up the photograph. “Do you know what this is?”

Her eyes widened, and she looked away, her hands twisting together in her lap. “It doesn’t matter,” she said quietly.

“It does,” he pressed. “If we want to understand why we’re here, we need to face whatever’s in these photos. What happened in that hospital?”

Emma hesitated, her lip trembling. Finally, she exhaled and spoke in a voice barely above a whisper. “It was my sister. She was sick—terminal cancer. I was supposed to be there for her, but…” She swallowed hard. “I missed her final moments. I wasn’t there when she needed me most.”

The room was silent except for the faint crackle of the fire.

Elliot nodded slowly and turned to the next photograph—Sam’s. It showed him standing outside a courthouse, his head turned slightly away as if avoiding the camera.

“Sam?”

Sam glared at him. “You think I’m going to spill my guts just because she did? Forget it.”

“Sam,” Emma said gently, “we’re all carrying something. Maybe if we share—”

“Share?” Sam barked, his laugh sharp and humorless. “Sure. I’ll share. I lied under oath, okay? Ruined someone’s life because I was too scared to tell the truth. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

His words hung in the air, heavy and raw.

One by one, the group began to speak, their secrets spilling out like poison:

• Madeleine admitted to betraying her business partner in a high-stakes deal, leading to their financial ruin.

• The quiet man, Jonah, revealed that he had stolen money from his dying mother’s savings to cover his gambling debts.

Elliot listened, his own chest tightening. They were all here because of something they had done, something they had tried to bury.

When the attention turned to him, he hesitated. He had always avoided thinking about his brother’s death, the memories too sharp, too painful. But now, with their lives hanging in the balance, he forced himself to speak.

“My brother died when I was seventeen,” Elliot said, his voice rough. “Everyone said it was an accident—a fall. But I saw him that day. I saw someone else with him.” He glanced at the photo of himself as a child, standing next to the man with the Ashworth crest ring. “I think it was him. I think it was someone tied to this family.”

The group fell silent again, the weight of their collective guilt pressing down on them.

“Do you think that’s why we’re here?” Emma asked. “Because of what we did?”

“Maybe,” Elliot said. “But there’s still a bigger question—who brought us here? And why now?”

Before anyone could answer, the sound of footsteps echoed through the hall outside.

They all turned toward the door, their bodies tensing.

“Stay here,” Elliot said, grabbing the candlestick from the mantel.

He stepped into the hallway, the shadows stretching long under the flickering light of the chandelier. The footsteps grew louder, heavier, as though whoever—or whatever—was approaching wanted to be heard.

Elliot tightened his grip on the candlestick, his pulse pounding.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a figure step out of the shadows.

It wasn’t Vivienne. It wasn’t the butler.

It was someone else entirely—someone Elliot didn’t recognize.

The figure smiled, their face calm and composed. “You’ve done well to get this far,” they said, their voice smooth and unfamiliar.

Elliot took a step back. “Who are you?”

The figure’s smile widened. “I’m the one who decides who gets to leave.”