The pale morning light seeped through the curtains, bathing the cluttered table in a soft, muted glow. Clara sat with her third cup of coffee, the journal open before her, its charred edges a reminder of the fire that had left the Blackthorn Estate in ruins. The events of the previous day replayed in her mind like a fragmented dream—the haunting ruins, the heavy chest in the cellar, and the detective’s ominous words about the Blackthorn family’s secrets.


    She flipped through the journal’s brittle pages, her eyes scanning the looping handwriting for something she might have missed. Lila’s words were fragmented, a mix of fear, frustration, and cryptic observations. Clara jotted down notes as she read, piecing together a timeline of events leading up to the fire.


    One entry caught her attention:


    "Father met with him again last night. I could hear them arguing in the study, their voices low but angry. He keeps saying we’re running out of time, that we need to prepare. But prepare for what? Every time I ask, he tells me to go to bed and not to worry. How can I not worry when the air feels so heavy, like it’s carrying secrets I’m not meant to know?"


    Clara leaned back in her chair, her mind racing. Who was ‘him’? The watcher? Someone else? She glanced at her notes, the same name standing out repeatedly: M.W. Whoever this person was, they had been paid a significant sum of money just days before the fire. It couldn’t be a coincidence.


    She flipped forward to another entry, dated the day before the fire:


    "He was here again today, watching from the edge of the woods. He never comes closer, but I can feel his eyes on me. When I told Mother, she said he was just a figment of my imagination, but I know better. Father knows him, and I think he’s afraid of him. Why won’t they tell me the truth?"


    Clara felt a chill creep down her spine. The watcher again. Why would Jonathan Blackthorn let someone he feared so deeply into his home? The pieces were starting to come together, but the picture they formed was still maddeningly incomplete.


    Her phone buzzed, pulling her from her thoughts. A message from her editor:


    “Hensley knows more than he’s letting on. Meet him at the Cornerstone Café this morning. He’s been around long enough to know where the bodies are buried—literally.”


    Clara frowned. The detective had been helpful, yes, but there was something about him that felt guarded, as though he was holding back. Still, her editor was right—Hensley could be an invaluable source if she played her cards right.Stolen story; please report.


    She typed a quick reply: “On my way.”


    <hr>


    The Cornerstone Café was a quaint, unassuming spot tucked into a quiet corner of Ashbourne. The warm scent of freshly brewed coffee greeted Clara as she stepped inside, along with the soft hum of conversation. Hensley was already seated in a booth near the window, his jacket slung over the back of the chair and a steaming mug in his hand.


    “Detective,” Clara greeted as she slid into the seat across from him. “My editor seems to think you have more to share.”


    Hensley smirked faintly, taking a sip of his coffee. “Your editor has a knack for understatement. What did you find in the journal?”


    Clara pulled out her notebook, flipping to her notes. “Lila wrote about someone she called ‘the watcher.’ He was always on the edge of the estate, watching the family. She thought her father was afraid of him. And there’s this name that keeps coming up—M.W. Do you know who that might be?”


    Hensley’s expression darkened, and he leaned back in his seat. “M.W. would be Martin Wexler,” he said after a moment. “He was a contractor Jonathan Blackthorn hired for… unconventional work.”


    “What kind of work?” Clara asked, her curiosity piqued.


    “Depends on who you ask,” Hensley said, his tone measured. “Officially, Wexler specialized in high-security installations—vaults, safes, things like that. Unofficially, there were whispers he dabbled in things less aboveboard. Smuggling, black market dealings. If Wexler was involved, it wasn’t for anything innocent.”


    Clara’s pulse quickened. “Do you think he had something to do with the fire?”


    “Possibly,” Hensley admitted. “But Wexler disappeared not long after the fire. No one’s seen him in years.”


    Clara made a note of the name. “What about the watcher? Lila wrote about him constantly. If her father was afraid of him, why would he let him stay around the estate?”


    Hensley hesitated, his gaze distant. “There were rumors,” he said finally. “Some people said the watcher wasn’t a man at all, but a spirit tied to the land—something the Blackthorns had called upon and couldn’t control. Others said he was an enforcer, someone Jonathan brought in to handle… problems.”


    Clara frowned. “You don’t believe that, do you?”


    Hensley shrugged. “I believe the Blackthorns were involved in something bigger than this town. Something they couldn’t escape. Whether it was supernatural or just human greed, I don’t know. But it got them killed.”


    Clara leaned forward, her voice low. “Do you think that’s why people are still trying to cover this up? Because of what they were involved in?”


    Hensley met her gaze, his expression serious. “I think the truth about the Blackthorns could ruin more than a few reputations, maybe even end a few careers. And I think the people trying to stop you are willing to do whatever it takes to keep it buried.”


    Clara felt a chill run through her. “Then we’d better find it first.”


    Hensley nodded, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Glad to see you’re not scared off yet, Dorne. Where to next?”


    Clara glanced down at her notes, her mind already racing with possibilities. “I need to find Martin Wexler—or at least figure out what he was doing for the Blackthorns. And I need to know more about the watcher. If he’s real, someone in this town knows who he is.”


    Hensley drained the last of his coffee and stood, pulling his jacket on. “Then let’s get to work.”