Page 49 of Where The Devil Kneels

My fingers curl into fists beneath the thin clinic sheets, nails digging crescents into my palms. The sting grounds me, keeps me from the self-pitying tears that threaten to escape. I will not cry. Not for lost trust, not for the estate now vulnerable without my presence, not even for the naive hope I’d briefly allowed myself to nurture, that Silas and I were building something like partnership, like equality, like…

No. Better to excise that thought before it fully forms.

Clouds slide over the moon outside my window, and the room goes darker. Can barely make out the feather now, just a blacker smudge against the dim floor. I bet Garrow’s popping champagne right now, scribbling up papers to steal everything while I’m strapped down like a lunatic. And Dr. Rao? She soldme out to keep her precious sanctuary secrets. Meanwhile, Silas—my so-called guardian, my shadow—hides behind the walls dropping feathers instead of, you know, actually getting me the hell out of here.

I close my eyes against it all, turning deeper into myself where no one can reach. For the first time since discovering I wasn’t alone in my inherited home, I truly am. And perhaps that’s fitting, the final lesson this strange inheritance had to teach me. In the end, we all face our demons alone, regardless of the shadows that claim to stand beside us.

The feather lies untouched as consciousness slips away, sedatives finally claiming victory over my resistance. My last thought before darkness claims me is that rejection has its own strange power, the first choice that is truly, entirely mine since this nightmare began.

Chapter fourteen

Shadows Without Comfort

Thesedativeshaven’tfullyleft my system. Everything tilts and blurs, as if I’m looking through warped glass. Maeve’s upscale hotel room, with its sleek surfaces and neutral colours, feels cold and lifeless. It’s nothing like the smoke and chaos of the estate. I perch on a chair that probably costs more than my car and watch my cousin move around with her usual efficiency. Maeve, always perfect in her pantsuit, sorts papers, makes calls, and tries to organize my life into neat boxes labelled “solution” and “problem.” I’m still struggling just to speak clearly. The clinic’s drugs linger in my blood, refusing to let go.

“The doctors were very clear,” Maeve says, not looking up from the leather portfolio she’s methodically filling with documents. “You need complete rest, away from environmental triggers. This arrangement is for your protection, Elara.”

My protection. That phrase keeps coming up. Garrow pretends to care, Silas made promises he didn’t keep, and Maeve’s version of caring just smothers me. Everyone says they want to protect me, but I only end up more vulnerable, more controlled, and more alone.

“Did you bring my clothes from the house?” I ask, the words coming out slightly slurred. I hate how weak I sound, how easily dismissed.

“We’re not going back there.” Maeve’s tone brooks no argument. “I’ve arranged for new essentials to be delivered. Everything else can be handled remotely.”

I stare at a painting across from me, a beige abstract piece that probably cost thousands but looks like an elephant painted it with a brush tied to its trunk. It’s easier to focus on bad art than deal with the mess of emotions inside me.

Anger at Silas pulses hottest. How could he just watch while they dragged me away? All his talk about protection, about the house safeguarding its people, was empty words when actual intervention was required.

But under the anger, a small voice offers reasons. What could he have done against armed officers without risking himself? Without putting the whole network, the sanctuary, and everyone who relies on it in danger? The feather he left me—his way of reaching out—sticks in my mind. It feels like both a gift and a rebuke.

“Elara, are you listening to me?” Maeve’s sharp tone cuts through my thoughts.

“No,” I answer honestly. “Not really. Don’t care to.”

She lets out that familiar Maeve sigh, the one that somehow mixes disappointment and superiority. “I’ve been explaining our next steps. The flight to Boston leaves tomorrow morning. My colleague there specializes in cases like yours.”

“Cases like mine,” I repeat flatly. “You mean people who’ve been forcibly sedated for telling inconvenient truths?”

“People experiencing paranoid episodes triggered by trauma and isolation.” Her voice softens with practised sympathy that makes my skin crawl. “The fire brought everything back, didn’t it? The accident, losing your parents. It’s not your fault, Elara.”

I don’t bother arguing. What’s the point? They’ve already decided I’m crazy— Maeve, Dr. Rao, Garrow, the officers who held me down. The truth has become irrelevant in the face of their unified narrative.

Maeve moves to the desk and spreads out a stack of crisp legal documents, with yellow sticky tabs marking the signature lines. Each page gleams with expensive watermarked paper and official-looking seals. My stomach drops as I recognize the header: PROPERTY TRANSFER AGREEMENT.

“I’ve negotiated very favourable terms considering the circumstances,” Maeve says, her professional voice taking over as she taps a manicured nail against the top document. “Greenfield Development will take over all responsibility for the property, taxes, restoration costs, and environmental remediation. You’ll receivereasonable compensation, enough to establish yourself comfortably anywhere you choose.”

My brain feels like it’s wading through molasses. Still, certain words penetrate the fog: Greenfield Development. I’d seen that name before in Silas’s files. One of Garrow’s shell companies, used to acquire properties after conveniently timed fires or owner “breakdowns.”

“This is the practical solution, Elara,” Maeve continues, sliding an expensive fountain pen toward me. “That house has been nothing but trouble since grandmother died. Let it go.”

Everything suddenly makes sense, and it turns my stomach. This isn’t just greedy capitalism—it’s a plan. The fires. My so-called breakdown. Maeve showing up right after the blaze with county officers. The diagnosis was ready to go. The transfer documents already prepared.

“How long?” I ask, my voice dangerously quiet.

“The closing process should take about thirty days, but—”

“How long have you been working with Garrow?” I clarify, rising from my chair despite the room’s slight spinning. “Planning this little takeover?”

Maeve’s expression flickers, just a microsecond of calculation before her mask of concern returns. “You’re not thinking clearly. Lyle Garrow is simply representing the township’s interests in preserving a historical—”