Chapter 3 - THE MEMORY IN THE PAINTING
The storm came back on Saturday night, bringing with it sheets of icy rain that rattled against the slate roof of the mansion.
At eight o'clock, I stood in the central hallway on the ground floor, staring up at the portrait of Lucas.
I had ordered the kitchen staff to prepare a formal dinner in the small dining room and invited Claire and her children under the pretense of a "welcome to the estate" meal. Claire had tried to decline three times, her voice trembling over the house phone, but I had insisted with quiet authority.
Now, I heard the heavy front doors open.
Claire walked into the foyer, holding Sophie by the hand. Behind her walked Lucas.
He had been cleaned up for the occasion. He wore a crisp light-blue button-down shirt that was slightly too large for his narrow shoulders, dark trousers, and clean black shoes. His dark hair was brushed back, revealing the thin, chalk-white line running along his left temple.
"Mr. Whitaker," Claire said, stopping ten feet away, her fingers clutching her small handbag so tightly her knuckles were white. "You really didn't need to do all this. We are very grateful for the cottage, but—"
"It's my pleasure, Claire," I said gently, stepping down off the Persian runner to meet them. I didn't look at her. My eyes were completely fixed on the boy standing at her side.
Lucas was staring at his shoes. He looked terrified, his small chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow breaths.
"Hello, Evan," I said softly, crouching down so that I was at eye level with him.
The boy slowly raised his head. His gray-green eyes met mine.
Up close, the resemblance to Rebecca was staggering. He had her long eyelashes, the delicate bridge of her nose, and that faint, charming asymmetry in his left brow.
"Hello, sir," he whispered. His voice was raspy, carrying the quiet, hesitant timbre of a child who was used to staying invisible.
"Do you like the cottage?" I asked, forcing my voice to remain perfectly steady, though every instinct inside me wanted to grab him, hold him against my chest, and never let him go.
"It's big," he said quietly. "It... it smells like old apples."
A small, involuntary smile broke across my face. My mother used to bake apple tarts in the cottage kitchen every autumn. The scent had seeped into the cedar beams of the ceiling thirty years ago.
"My mother loved apples," I told him. "She used to leave them on the windowsill."
Sophie broke away from Claire's grip and skipped over to the grand wall, pointing her tiny hand up at the oil painting again.
"Look, Evan!" Sophie giggled. "It's you again! In the gold frame!"
Claire gasped, taking a fast step forward to pull Sophie back. "Sophie, shh! Don't be rude!"
"It's fine, Claire," I said, standing up slowly. I walked over to the painting and looked up at the four-year-old boy depicted on the canvas. "Evan... do you want to take a closer look?"
Lucas hesitated. He looked at Claire, who gave him a tight, nervous nod, then walked slowly toward the painting. He stood two feet away from the wall, his head tilted back, staring at his own face from six years ago.
"The bracelet," Lucas whispered, his voice trembling slightly.
He reached up with his left hand, pulled back the cuff of his light-blue shirt, and held his wrist up next to the painting.
The metal band on his arm was scratched, tarnished around the edges, and slightly too small for a ten-year-old wrist—it sat tight against his skin, leaving a light red mark where the silver pressed into his bone. But it was undeniably the exact same bracelet.
"Where did you get that, Evan?" I asked softly, stepping up beside him.
"My mom gave it to me," he said instantly.
I glanced over at Claire. She looked as if she were about to faint, her shoulder pressed against the wood framing of the archway for support.
"She found me," Lucas continued, his eyes fixed on the painting. "In the dark. Under the tree."
"Do you remember anything before the tree, Evan?" I asked, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Lucas closed his eyes tightly. He pressed his knuckles against his left temple, right over the white scar.
"Smoke," he muttered, his breathing turning fast and ragged. "A loud noise... like... like metal snapping. And... and a lady."
My throat locked up. "A lady?"
"She had long hair," Lucas whispered, his eyes still squeezed shut. He began to shiver violently. "She was reaching back... from the front seat. She was trying to undo my belt. She said... she said, 'Run, Lucas. Run into the trees and don't come back.'"
Lucas.
He had said his own name.
Claire let out a loud, strangled gasp, covering her mouth with both hands as tears flooded her eyes.
Lucas opened his eyes abruptly, staring at me with a look of pure, agonizing confusion.
"Why did she call me Lucas?" the boy cried out, his voice breaking as he looked between me and the painting. "Why did she tell me to run? Who was she?!"
Before I could answer, the heavy chandelier above our heads flickered violently.
The lights in the foyer died, plunging the vast stone hallway into total, pitch-black darkness.
A second later, a deep, mechanical hum echoed from the basement as the emergency backup generators failed to kick in.
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In the darkness, I heard the faint, terrifying sound of glass shattering in the second-floor library above us, followed by the heavy, muffled footfalls of three men dropping onto the hardwood floor.
"Julian!" Marcus's voice screamed through my ear-piece communicator. "Breach! Perimeter fence cut at the east gate! They cut the main power lines! Get the boy down!"
