Since arriving at the mansion, Clara had noticed things others ignored. By day, Leo was gentle and sweet. He loved drawing dinosaurs and hiding behind curtains to scare her with shy laughter. But when evening came, fear took over. He clung to doorframes, begged not to go to his room, tried to fall asleep anywhere but his bed—the couch, the hallway rug, even a hard kitchen chair.
Some mornings, he appeared with red cheeks, irritated ears, tiny marks on his skin. Victoria, James’s fiancée, always had an explanation.
“Probably a fabric allergy,” she’d say softly. “Or he scratches in his sleep.”
She said it so confidently that doubts faded—everyone’s doubts except Clara’s.
Victoria was flawless on the outside: magazine beauty, perfect clothes, practiced smiles. But Clara noticed the impatience when Leo spoke, the irritation when he sought affection, the coldness when James hugged his son. To Victoria, Leo wasn’t a child—he was an obstacle.
That night, as muffled sobs leaked through the locked door, something inside Clara snapped. She didn’t know the cause yet—but she knew Leo’s fear was real.
When the house finally sank into sleep, Clara acted.