15. Where Lies the Hoax #2
“Oh, go fuck your therapist, Edmund,” I speak over him, rolling my eyes to hide the hurt.
That’s when Eric reaches across the small distance to place his hand over mine.
I barely noticed that I’ve been gripping my fork until my knuckles have whitened.
Slowly, I release, but Eric doesn’t remove his hand.
Edmund clocks the contact, and his chair scrapes as he stands. “Excuse me, I’ve lost my appetite.”
He says nothing to his pink-faced father and just stalks off, boots heavy against the stone.
I flinch when the doors slam behind him.
Seeing Caitlin Henderson getting railed is no longer the worst part of my morning but rather another argument that pushes Edmund further from this family.
As if his mother wasn’t already worsening the situation.
Kairos walks in a moment later and says with a huge, effortless grin, “Good morning!”
Eric drops his forehead into his free hand, and the rest of the morning passes without incident. Redford has always known how to manage her appetite, and she understands that this morning has already taken a big bite out of me.
It can afford to wait before coming back for seconds.
Sheffolk Tragedy Used in Sick Game: Lake Incident Blamed on Online Dare Culture.
T he second bite comes two days later. The headline of the latest news report on The Redford Record website blinks back at me like some sort of Frankenstein’s monster, a digital representation of all my grief and trauma stitched together, brought to life by cruel obsession.
How arrogant of me to think I could be giddy tonight.
Two drama-free dinner nights with Eric and Edmund since that fateful morning, two men who can hardly stand the sound of each other’s chewing—and I thought myself a miracle worker. Kai actually laughed at some of my cousin’s jokes, and Eric didn’t storm out before dessert.
Four whole days since his fishing trip did Uncle wait before telling me about the anonymous tip he received.
I thought I’d gotten my control back, thought Gran would be proud of how well I’ve played hostess in her absence.
No locket thoughts, no lake-water bubbling beneath my skin.
Just a duchess-heir doing what a duchess-heir does.
But Sheffolk never knew how to hold onto joy, not for long.
There’s a steaming cup of rooibos tea in my hands, and Lydia stands behind me, pulling the long strands of my hair into a plait as I stare at my monitor.
Uncle Hamish refused to give up until he got to the bottom of things, and now authorities claim that a group of teenagers turned themselves in, confessing to attempting a viral stunt inspired by a Reddit thread and ghost stories they’ve seen circulating on TikTok.
There are clips of individual interviews, whose transcripts explain that they scattered fake blood and ominous messages all around the lake.
I reach out and scroll further, searching for the mention of Lucy’s locket.
The teens told police they purchased several antique ‘props’ from their local pawn shop, including what sources say turned out to be an actual heirloom from the Sheffolk family. No charges are being pursued at this moment.
“Don’t stress, my liefie ,” Lydia murmurs, grabbing another portion of hair. My love . The affectionate name is almost enough to pull me from my thoughts. “Your uncle already told you what happened, didn’t he? Put it out of your mind.”
“I can’t , Aunty.”
I drag the cursor to the access bar of the iMac and click on the tab where Hamish’s recent messages are still open. They came in a barrage over the last two hours, and my brain is yet to come to terms with it all.
Uncle
Chess, I’ve followed the lead I told you about, and I just spoke to the local officers.
Some idiotic boys were caught after staging a grotesque little prank in the woods, with fake blood on the southern path and threatening messages left scattered.
They were arrested just minutes ago after a young child came across a fake severed hand and had a panic. She’s still shaken, the poor thing, and the boys’ parents have been contacted.
Alright, I’ve just left the station.
The boys have been questioned thoroughly. They admitted the locket was amongst several of the things bought from a pawn shop last week. Claimed they thought it was fake, just a trinket.
Regardless, the item has been recovered. The inspector on the case says the only thing keeping them from proper legal trouble is the fact that, in their stupidity, they’ve inadvertently returned a Sheffolk heirloom to us.
Silver linings, I suppose.
Your gran will be pleased, of course.
And you, my love, can breathe.
But I can’t breathe.
Each strand that Lydia tugs on feels as though it’s connected to my lungs, and I feel holes appearing each time I try to inhale.
I place my cup down once my hands start to tremble.
The locket is next to my keyboard, but I don’t reach for it because Uncle’s truth feels watery, and I don’t know why.
Once Lydia is finished, she kisses the side of my head, and I shut my eyes in guilt.
“You shouldn’t have been summoned from your quarters.”
Lydia huffs. “Don’t talk nonsense with me, Chess. Your uncle warned me you’d be shaken up once the article was published. Why wouldn’t I come see you?”
“Uncle shouldn’t have told you,” I say in an almost wheeze, gulping down air. Lydia rounds the chair to kneel in front of me, taking my trembling hands in hers. The love in her gaze is scalding. “You’ve wasted your time.”
“Don’t be silly, man. In what world is time spent at your side wasted?”
“I’ve made a big deal out of nothing, Aunty. I’m so sorry.”
I don’t tell her that I can’t fully believe the article, that I hate that she’s here because I may have put her in danger.
The clock is ticking, Godwyn is watching, and here I am: seeking help from my own .
She barely spares the locket a glance and then sighs.
Her breath smells like mebos, her favourite snack.
The tangy sweetness reminds me of childhood, and I nearly burst into tears.
“ Ai tog , Francesca. Don’t ever apologise for being scared, my baby. If your chest went tight, there was a reason for it. You trusted yourself; that’s good. I’m proud of you.”
She ushers me towards my bed, and the castle is eerily silent at this hour. I watch her hands smooth the sheets in the same way she’s been doing since childhood. I let her fuss with the pillows and pull the duvet up to my chin, where she flicks it and then kisses the crown of my head.
Tonight, I’m sleeping in the castle because it’s expected of me.
Uncle claims it’s safe now, that the locket is an object again and the events that led it to me are logical once more.
I ask myself, how could he forget that logic unravels on our soil?
Maybe if it were just the locket, I could believe him, yet when tested against the weight of Tommy’s absence and the unsettling feeling of being watched, I’m unable to swallow the neat explanation.
Once, I could feel her everywhere; now, when she does reappear, she feels thinner somehow, her presence weakened.
I fidget with her bracelet around my wrist, thinking of all the men on Redford and how they walk through ghosts as though they’re mist. Even Pascoe and Philip, part of Gran’s circle, remain oblivious to their presence.
Never do they feel; never do they notice the apparitions watching them from the shadows.
But Eric does.
His sensitivity to this place makes the skin at my throat itch.
Maybe it’s something in his blood. Godwyn’s blood.
Logic says prank; my nerves say something way older is jump-roping with my senses again.
Eric’s observation keeps circling back, that Cillian wasn’t just a butler but a brother.
Something fundamental shifts in the foundation of our history the more I repeat it.
What did Godwyn ask of his brother that night? What could he have entrusted to his heir on the heels of unmaking a duchess?
I’ve been searching for answers in the wrong places. Loyalty, as Gran warned, is dangerous because of its intangibility. Of course I couldn’t find Cillian. Loyalty leaves no residue from which to follow. Blood, though, that stains. Cillian wasn’t just loyal to Godwyn; he was him.
His brother. His heir. His right-hand man.
There are too many gaps left in the story, and, perhaps foolishly, I’d hoped Nanna could fill them. That her journals could provide a foundation upon which to build, at the very least.
Not sure when she’ll be ready for a discussion like that, though. Could be days. Months, even. Time I don’t have. The blankets become bandages as I struggle to move against their grip. My lungs tighten; I kick off the duvet and drag myself to the window.
With a lift and push , it unlatches and gets thrown open so I can greedily take in the icy night air.
The lamplight throws a pale glow across the gravel, and I catch something unseen disturbing the stone, right where Philip delivered the princes.
It’s the imprints of footsteps, gravel caving under invisible weight.
No body to cast a shadow, nor anything to claim shape.
They stop below my window, two small ovals pointed squarely at me.
I see no face, yet feel Tommy’s gaze all the same.
Half habit, I reach for the bracelet as a summoning bell, hoping to call her without having to scream into the night.
My fingers close around nothing. Ice-cold skin, no linen, no silver.
I look down in confusion, checking the windowsill and then tearing my blankets apart.
“It was here a minute ago,” I mutter to myself.