The door crashed open, making both me and Neville jump. Standing in the doorway, soaking wet, was Blake. His drenched coat clung to him, and his hair dripped onto the floor, but none of that diminished the cold fury in his eyes as they swept the room, locking onto Neville.

I scrambled up from the floor and threw my arms around his neck. Relief surged through me, though my hands trembled as they clutched at him, grounding myself in his presence. For a brief moment, Blake's arms wrapped protectively around me before he pulled back, his sharp eyes immediately catching the blood streaking down my forehead.

"Did he do this to you?" Blake's voice was low, steady—too steady. That calm, deadly tone sent a shiver down my spine as he gently brushed a strand of hair from the wound, his touch incongruously soft against the tension radiating off him.

I couldn't answer, my words caught in my throat. The chaos of the night—the storm outside, Neville's horrific confession, and now Blake standing here like an avenging shadow—left me overwhelmed. I felt an overwhelming mixture of relief, gratitude, and guilt. How much had he heard? Did he already know everything?

Neville, so commanding and sure of himself just moments ago, was visibly faltering now. He stumbled to his feet, his bravado slipping like sand through his fingers. His gaze darted nervously between Blake and me, his earlier confidence completely shattered.

Blake stepped forward, shielding me. His voice was clipped, sharp as a blade. "You're Neville Baker, right?" he said. "The one squatting on Winslow land?"

Neville's mouth opened and closed, his words momentarily lost. "You're... one of the Hawthornes?" he finally stammered.

Blake's lips curled into something between a smile and a snarl. "Winslow," he corrected, his voice cutting like ice. "You should already know who I am. Now tell me—" Blake took another step forward, his frame towering over Neville, "—what did you do to my mother?"

Neville flinched, his pale face twisting with unease. "She... she did it to herself," he muttered, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him. His defiance was breaking.

Blake's jaw tightened, his entire body tense. The storm outside roared louder, the rain hammering against the windows like fists. "You expect me to believe that?" Blake's voice was quiet, dangerous. "Tell me the truth."

Neville's expression twisted with bitterness, his lips curling into a sneer. "You don't know anything about her! She was a liar, a deceiver, and she got exactly what she deserved."

Blake's hand twitched at his side, his rage simmering just beneath the surface. "That's not an answer," he said, his tone unnervingly calm.

Neville clenched his fists, his anger rising as he tried to meet Blake's gaze. "I told her what I'd done," he said, spitting the words like venom. "About the fire. I told her there was no way out. That Ernest was dead. I wanted her to hurt."

Blake's nostrils flared, disbelief and fury flashing in his eyes. "You lied to her? To what? Push her over the edge? Wasn't beating her enough for you?"

Neville's defiance cracked for a moment before his sneer returned, weaker now. "She got what she deserved," he muttered.

The front door burst open again, slamming against the wall. The sound jolted through me, making my heart leap into my throat. My dad stormed into the room, a cricket bat gripped tightly in his hands. Rain dripped from his soaked jacket and hair, his face set with a fury that rivalled Blake's.

"What the hell is going on?" he demanded, his voice sharp and unrelenting. His eyes darted between Neville, Blake, and me before narrowing on Blake. "And who the bloody hell are you?"

"Dad, not now!" I snapped, stepping toward him, my voice trembling. I couldn't take my eyes off Neville, who now looked like a cornered animal.

"Felicity, not now?" my dad barked, his tone incredulous. "Start talking, or I swear—"

"Dad!" I interrupted, my desperation breaking through. "Please, not now!"

Blake didn't even flinch at my dad's outburst or the bat in his hands. His focus remained fixed on Neville, his body radiating tension. "What happened next?" he asked Neville, his voice low and lethal.

Neville's shoulders hunched as he glanced toward the door as though calculating an escape. But Blake took a step closer, cutting off any thought of flight. Neville's voice, barely above a whisper, broke the silence. "She wouldn't talk," he muttered. "Just cried and stared at the walls. Rocked back and forth, day in, day out."

My dad's grip on the cricket bat loosened slightly, confusion flickering in his eyes. "What are you talking about?" he demanded.

Neville continued as if he hadn't heard him, his voice tinged with bitterness. "I tried everything to bring her back. A slap, yelling... nothing worked. She was already gone."

Blake's jaw tightened, his entire body rigid. "You hit her?" he said, his voice low and cold.

Neville didn't respond immediately, his gaze distant. "She wasn't herself. She was broken," he muttered, as though that justified his actions.

The air grew heavier with every word, the storm outside mirroring the storm within the room.

"One night," Neville said, his voice cracking, "I came back from the pub. There was water coming from under the bathroom door." He faltered, his breathing quickening. "I found her... in the tub."

Blake stepped closer again, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. The air between them seemed to hum with tension, a single spark away from exploding. My heart pounded wildly as I watched Blake looming over Neville, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring.

"You buried her," Blake said, his voice trembling with controlled fury. "You didn't call anyone. You didn't even try to save her."

Neville flinched, his bravado crumbling under the weight of Blake's anger. "She was already dead," he mumbled, his voice barely audible.

"How do you know!" Blake's rage broke through his calm façade, his fists raising slightly before he stopped himself. His chest heaved as he stepped back, his voice quieter now but no less menacing. "You destroyed her. And now you're trying to justify it?"

Neville stumbled back, his confidence shattered. My dad shifted beside me, his cricket bat raised slightly, his muscles taut and ready. The room felt like it was seconds away from erupting.

"We're calling the police," my dad said, his voice tight and still a little bit confused  

Blake didn't move, his eyes still locked on Neville. "But first," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "tell me where you buried her."

Neville hesitated, fear flickering across his face. Slowly, his trembling hand pointed toward the woods. "By the swing," he muttered. "She liked it there."

The tension in the room was suffocating, the weight of Neville's words pressing down on all of us. Blake's knuckles cracked as he slowly unclenched his fists, his body taut, as though any wrong move from Neville would snap his control.

"The swing?" Blake repeated, his voice sharp and measured. "You think burying her there makes any of this right?"

Neville's mouth opened, but no sound came out. His hands trembled as he clutched the edge of the table, his face pale and drawn. "It's where she liked to sit. She said it was peaceful," he stammered, his words pathetically inadequate.

Blake took a deliberate step forward, his voice dropping to a low, deadly calm. "You didn't call for help. You didn't try to save her. You buried her like trash, and you expect me to believe you cared?"

Neville stumbled back, his bravado crumbling. "I—I didn't know what else to do," he muttered, his eyes darting toward the door as though considering an escape.

"You knew what to do!"Blake's lip curled slightly, but he didn't raise his voice. "What you mean is you didn't want anyone asking questions."

Neville flinched, his breath quickening as he tried to maintain what little composure he had left. The storm outside seemed to punctuate the moment, wind rattling the windows as rain slashed against the glass.

Blake's tone turned colder. "You're going to take us there," he said, each word deliberate.

Neville's eyes widened in alarm. "What? No! You—" He shook his head, his voice faltering. "You can't make me go out there."

Blake leaned in, his face inches from Neville's. "You're going to take us there," he repeated, his voice icy. "Or so help me, you won't be walking out here."

Neville's knees buckled slightly, and his hands shot up in shaky surrender. "Fine," he whispered hoarsely. "I'll take you."

Blake straightened, his gaze boring into Neville. "Move," he ordered.