The rain pattered softly against the windows of Clara’s cottage, a rhythmic backdrop to the dimly lit room. She sat at her desk, a steaming mug of coffee growing cold beside her, and stared at the sprawling mess of notes, photos, and documents spread across the wall. Her “clue tree,” as she had started calling it, was slowly taking shape.


    At the center of the arrangement was a photograph of the Blackthorn family, their somber faces framed by the grandeur of the estate in its prime. Around it, Clara had pinned key points of interest, linked by threads of red yarn to show connections. The tree branched outward, a labyrinthine representation of the case that consumed her thoughts.


    She picked up a marker and circled the latest piece she had added: Witness Reports — Night of the Fire. Underneath, she had listed:


    <ul>


    <li>


    Strange lights: Blue flickering lights seen in windows before the fire.


    </li>


    <li>


    Low humming sound: Reported by multiple neighbors, increasing in intensity.


    </li>


    <li>


    Figures on the grounds: Shadowy forms moving through the estate, described as "spectral."


    </li>


    <li>


    Simultaneous ignition: Fire starting in multiple locations at once, no accelerants found.


    </li>


    </ul>


    Clara tapped the marker against her chin. “Figures on the grounds,” she murmured. “Could they have been the ones who triggered the fire? Or were they something else entirely?”


    She moved to another branch of the tree: Jonathan Blackthorn’s Letter. The copy she had made of the unsent letter was pinned there, alongside a timeline of events leading up to the fire. Jonathan’s words haunted her:


    “They’re coming for us… The vault contains what remains of our efforts to right the wrong.”The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    Clara had underlined "right the wrong" several times. What had the Blackthorns done that required redemption? And who or what was coming for them?


    To the right of the letter, she had another cluster of notes dedicated to the vault. She traced the red thread linking the vault to a set of coordinates, now prominently displayed on the wall. Below them, she had written:


    <ul>


    <li>


    Possible locations?


    </li>


    <li>


    Connection to Jonathan’s “wrong”?


    </li>


    <li>


    Linked to glowing figures?


    </li>


    </ul>


    Clara leaned back in her chair and took a sip of her now-lukewarm coffee. The coordinates were the next logical step, but the risks involved gnawed at her. She had already received warnings to stop digging, and the deeper she went, the more the danger seemed to escalate.


    Her gaze drifted to the leftmost branch of the tree: The Blackthorn Estate Fire. Beneath it, she had pinned the newspaper clippings and police reports, with several points highlighted:


    <ul>


    <li>


    Unexplained scorch marks: Claw-like patterns found around the estate.


    </li>


    <li>


    Bodies with no signs of burns: Jonathan, Evelyn, and Lila found dead before the fire consumed the mansion.


    </li>


    <li>


    Unnatural heat: Firefighters reported intense, almost otherworldly heat at the scene.


    </li>


    </ul>


    Clara’s fingers brushed the edge of a photo pinned next to these notes: the claw marks scorched into the earth. They resembled symbols she had seen in the vault beneath the estate, a detail that sent a shiver down her spine.


    Finally, her eyes returned to the bottom of the tree, where she had started grouping the scattered pieces of the puzzle she couldn’t yet connect:


    <ul>


    <li>


    Martin Wexler: The contractor who built the vault, now missing.


    </li>


    <li>


    The glowing crystal: Found in the vault, with coordinates etched onto its surface.


    </li>


    <li>


    Anonymous threats: Messages warning her to stop digging.


    </li>


    </ul>


    She stepped back and took in the entire tree. It was sprawling, chaotic, and incomplete. But it was a start.


    Her phone buzzed on the desk, breaking her concentration. It was a message from Hensley:


    “Weather looks clear tomorrow. We’re heading to the first set of coordinates. Be ready.”


    Clara’s stomach tightened. She glanced at the coordinates again, her mind racing with possibilities. Tomorrow, they would take the next step—into the unknown.


    With a deep breath, she grabbed a fresh piece of yarn and connected the coordinates to a new label she had just written: The Beginning of the End?