Sarah’s eyes dropped to the pages.
She saw the records of those who had come before her. She saw clinical entries detailing Hannah’s collapse, Rebecca’s failed escape and subsequent interrogation, and Elizabeth’s “final disposition.”
Final disposition. The phrase was repeated across several entries, accompanied by precise dates, chemical measurements, and notes referencing the locked root cellar.
Sarah looked at the dates. Each subject had survived between three and six months before the final entry was recorded. She was currently in her sixth month. Her time was nearly up.
Looking at those cold, ink-stained lines of murder disguised as science, something within Sarah hardened entirely. It was not hope—hope had been extinguished weeks ago. It was something far colder: calculation.
If her demise was already fixed, she had nothing left to protect. The only remaining variable was the manner of the end. She would not wait for his “final disposition.” She would author her own.
Beginning the next morning, Sarah observed Thornwood through a different lens. She stopped watching him as a victim anticipating cruelty; she studied him as an adversary to be eliminated. She tracked his habits, his consumption of liquor, his balance, and the precise times of evening when the house staff retired to their quarters.
