Unwanted Blood (Harper) novel Chapter 57

Chapter 57

Harper’s POV

For the next two days, I kept up the routine.

Breakfast at eight. Garden walk at noon. Afternoon reading in the study. Dinner at seven. I smiled at Rosa when she brought my tea. I asked the gardener about the rose bush he was thinking of replacing. I nodded politely when Adrian joined me for meals.

Everything looked normal. But everything was anything.

My brain was running at full speed, turning over every piece of information I’d gathered since I walked into this house, trying to find a path forward. And every path was blocked.

The east building was guarded, locked, boarded windows. I have no way in.

Adrian’d shown me documents, introduced me to his uncle, let me stay in the manor, but he’d never tell me his father’s crimes.

And My father was dead in a car crash after receiving the recording. The recording itself gone.

Three doors. All locked.

I sat on the bench by the fountain on the second afternoon, watching the water arc and fall, and let myself feel the weight of it.

But then I noticed something.

Every evening, around five-thirty, Adrian left the main house alone and walked to the east building. He stayed inside for about thirty minutes. Every time he came out, his face was exhausted. His shoulders were tight. His jaw was clenched. Sometimes he’d stop at the corner of the garden and just stand there for a moment, breathing, before walking back inside.

If the man in that building was his beloved father, someone he cared about, someone he was protecting, why did every visit look like punishment?

Why did Adrian leave that building looking like he’d survived something?

I filed it away. Another question.

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11:37

Chapter 57

Ryder’s POV

I landed in Vancouver at 11:40 p.m. and drove straight to the safe house.

288 Vouchers

Colton was there. So was Ethan, who was bruised, wrist still wrapped in gauze. Lily sat on the couch with her knees pulled to her chest, her face pale.

I dropped my bag on the floor and pulled the folded medical record from my jacket. I laid it on the coffee table alongside the screenshots Harper had sent weeks ago-bank transfers, port documents, email printouts.

“One directions,” I said. Everyone leaned in. “First: prove the old Westbrook altered my mother’s medical record and had her murdered in the delivery room. We have Martha’s copy. But We need to find the original; or someone who was in that hospital in 2010 and saw what really happened.”

“Another, Harper sent me another message. She learned something from Adrian’s uncle Michael A dictaphone your mother left before she died. Michael gave it to your father but now the recording disappeared with him.” Lily added.

Ryder frowned. “After our father died in the car accident, we went through all of his belongings. We never found any recordings or documents.”

Then Colton suddenly spoke up. “Wait. There was a safe in Dad’s study. We couldn’t open it after he died, and eventually the bank took it away.”

“Which bank?” I stood up so fast the couch shifted behind me.

“Vancouver Trust,” Colton said. “Downtown. The one on Burrard.”

“Tomorrow morning,” I said. “I’ll check safe’s contents.”

Colton nodded. “I’ll pull the account records tonight. If the bank still has it, we’ll know exactly what we’re walking into.”

–

Harper’s POV

I was walking back to my room after dinner when I saw him.

Adrian was coming down the corridor from the cast wing. Ilis jacket was half-off one shoulder, his hair disheveled, his face pale in the dim hallway light.

And his left arm-lbood was soaking through a bandage. The gauze was twisted, the tape peeling, a dark red stain spreading across the fabric and dripping onto his sleeve.

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11.37

Chapter 57

I stopped in the middle of the hallway. “Your arm is bleeding.”

He glanced down, his expression blank. “It’s fine. I’ve handled it.”

“The Wuchers

I didn’t move out of his way. “You haven’t handled it. You’ve wrapped it badly and it’s getting worse. If you don’t mind, I’ll redo it.”

He looked at me. I looked at him. The silence stretched.

Then he nodded, just once, and followed me into the kitchenette on the first floor.

There is a counter, a sink, a cabinet with basic first aid supplies, a small table with two chairs.

I opened the cabinet and pulled out clean gauze, medical tape, antiseptic, and a pair of scissors. I set them on the table and gestured to the chair.

“Sit.” He sat. I pulled the other chair around to face him and took his arm.

The bandage came off in pieces-some of it stuck to the wound, and I had to peel it carefully, wincing myself at the sound of tape pulling away from damaged skin. The cut underneath was shallow but jagged, like something sharp had caught him at an angle and dragged.

I didn’t ask how

I cleaned it with antiseptic. His breath hitched, but he didn’t pull away. I applied antibiotic ointment and wrapped fresh gauze around his forearm, smooth and even, securing the edges with

tape

He watched my hands the whole time. His breathing was shallow. His jaw was tight.

When I finished the last wrap and pressed the tape down, I didn’t let go of his arm right away.

“Your father did this,” I said. I didn’t look up. I was focused on the bandage, making sure the edges were neat.

A pause

“Yes.” he said. The word was quiet. Flat. Like he was admitting something he’d never said out

loud.

I released his arm and started gathering the used supplies.

“He was strict.” His voice was distant, like he was talking about someone else’s life. “When he taught me to walk, he didn’t hold my hand. He told me to stand. When I fell, he told me to get up. When he taught me to shoot, he didn’t use a target. He put a glass on the fence and told me not to

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