On My First Day at My Husband’s House, My Mother-in-Law Pointed to the Kitchen and Said, “New Daughters-in-Law Eat Downstairs Until They Learn Their Place.” I Nodded and Didn’t Argue. The Next Day, My Husband Invited His Boss to Dinner, Just as He Was Expecting a Promotion. When Everyone Took Their Seats at the Table, I Picked Up My Plate and Repeated Exactly What She Had Ordered Me to Do… and His Boss Asked a Question That Left My Husband Speechless. / Chapter 24 / 40

Chapter 24 - The River of Ash

The drop into the icy water took my breath away.

I hit the stream boots-first, the freezing current instantly slamming me against the slimy brick walls of the underground aqueduct. The water was waist-deep, moving with terrifying speed toward the dark culverts beneath the town.

"Charlotte!" Walter yelled from behind me, landing in the water with a heavy splash.

Ahead of us, George was already wading against the flow, coughing up river silt, his hands scraping along the century-old brickwork. Above our heads, the ceiling of the tunnel rumbled ominously as the mansion above began to burn.

"Keep moving!" I shouted over the roar of the water. "The current flows south toward the old timber mill! There’s an outflow pipe near the highway bridge!"

We waded through the dark, guided only by the waterproof beam of Walter’s industrial flashlight. Every few yards, chunks of burning plaster and old insulation fell through rotting floorboards far above us, hissing furiously as they hit the water.

Victoria Vance had set fire to her own dynasty to bury the truth.

For twenty minutes we fought the freezing torrent, our muscles locking up from the cold, our teeth chattering violently. George stumbled twice, nearly swept away into the deeper culverts, but Walter and I caught him by the elbows, dragging him forward through the dark muck.

Finally, the brick arch gave way to corrugated iron, and ahead of us, framed by weeping willow branches and the midnight sky, we saw the open air.

We scrambled out of the drainage pipe, tumbling onto the muddy bank of the Blackwood River.

I collapsed on my back against the damp grass, gasping for clean air, my lungs aching from the smoke and chemical fumes. Across the tree line, sitting atop the high ridge that overlooked the valley, the great Vance Manor was fully engulfed in flames.

A pillar of orange fire tore through the roof of the master bedroom—the very room where Victoria had looked down on the gardens and dictated who was worthy to enter her presence.

Slipping my hand into my jacket, I felt the square, solid shape of my grandfather’s leather journal. It was damp, but intact.

Beside me, George sat in the mud, staring up at the burning mansion with hollow, empty eyes.

Then, the sudden beam of headlights swept across the riverbank.

A black SUV came skidding to a halt on the dirt access road fifty yards away. The driver’s side door flew open, and a figure tumbled out into the mud, sobbing hysterically.