The following morning, Abigail woke up with a start from a nightmare thanks to the shrill of her alarm clock.
Her heart pounded wildly as she reached for her phone to silent it. Her chest felt tight and her breathing was uneven as she sat up in bed.
She pressed a trembling hand to her forehead, the vivid images of screeching tires, and shattering glass, ringing in her head.
Abigail inhaled deeply, reassuring herself she was safe. She slid out of bed, walked into the en-suite bathroom and splashed water on her face.
When she came out, she sat on the edge of the bed as she tried to figure out her nightmare.
It was the same nightmare she had the previous night. She had been talking.
Why did she keep having the feeling that the nightmare was a memory and not a mere dream?
What she couldn't understand was why she was talking in her dream yet her father had said she was born mute.
The cook's words about a tragedy replayed in her head and she realized she had been so exhausted and had forgotten to check it out on the internet.
What had happened all those years ago that no one wanted to talk about? And why did it feel like she was on the cusp of remembering something buried deep within her?
She needed answers.
She reached for her laptop and powered it on, and immediately the screen illuminated her dimly lit room.
Would she even find anything?
Her father wasn't just famous, but he was wealthy and powerful. It was possible her father had ensured whatever "tragedy" had occurred was erased from the public eye if he didn't even want the domestic staff to talk about it.
Still, she had to try.
She opened a search engine and typed in 'Ryan Harris tragedy.'
A list of unrelated articles appeared—business expansions, investments, charity events. Nothing scandalous or worth her time.
Frowning, she narrowed the search. 'Harris family accident. Harris family death. Harris house fire.'
Her pulse spiked when she saw an old headline at the bottom of the page.
"The Harris Family Coincident… Or Not: A Family Left in Mourning."
Abigail's breath hitched.
She clicked on the link. The article was from fifteen years ago, faded and archived, but it was still there.
Her eyes scanned the page.
"Tragedy struck the wealthy Harris family late last night in what seemed to be an unexpected and devastating fire accident. Though Mr Ryan remains private about the details, it has been confirmed that there were no survivor. The authorities have not released an official statement, but speculations suggest—"
The rest of the article was blurred behind a paywall.
Abigail let out a frustrated sigh.
She clicked on the source website, but her access was blocked. She needed a subscription.
Her mind raced. If this tragedy had been big enough to make it into an article, surely there were other mentions of it somewhere.
She copied the headline and pasted it into a new search bar.
Most of the results were buried beneath more recent news, but after scrolling for what felt like an eternity, she found something— a discussion forum.
The thread was old, the original post dating back years.
"Does anyone remember what really happened at the Harris mansion? My aunt used to work there, and she always said it wasn't an accident..."
Abigail's heart pounded as she scrolled through the replies.
"No way. I thought no one survived?"
"I heard it happened while he was away nursing his stepdaughter to health."
"My mom told me it happened shortly after Mr Harris lost his wife and her parents in a fatal auto crash."
A chill ran down Abigail's spine.
A fatal crash?
Did it have anything to do with her nightmare?
She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to piece together the fragments of her memory.
Her breathing became uneven.
She didn't remember seeing any other kid in the car in her nightmare, yet the woman driving the car had called Dawn.
Was she Dawn?
Why had she seemed to be so well off in her nightmare? She looked pretty and well taken care of and the woman seemed to be very close to her.
Who was the woman? And who were the two older people in the car?
A knock on the door jolted her out of her thoughts.
She slammed the laptop shut, her heart hammering in her chest.
"Abi?" It was the cook. "I brought your breakfast, sweetheart. I don't want you coming to the kitchen and getting sick."
Abigail took a steadying breath before standing up and unlocking the door.
The cook walked in, setting the tray on the nightstand. "You look pale, child. You really need to rest in your state," she chided gently.
Abigail gave her a small smile before typing on her phone. "I am getting more than enough rest. I only just woke up."
"I see. Then why do you look so pale?" The cook asked, eyeing her with concern.
Abigail typed again, "I had a nightmare. Do you know anyone called Dawn?"
The cook's smile faltered. "Dawn? Why do you ask?"
Taking that as a sign that the cook might know, Abigail pressed on, "It has to do with my nightmare. Do you know her? Who is Dawn?"
A beat of silence stretched between them and when Abigail saw that the cook was hesitating she quickly typed, "Please it's important to me. I promise not to say a word of it to anyone else."
Finally she sighed. "Genevieve's name used to be Dawn before your father adopted her. But you can't mention it. Your father would fire me if he finds out I'm even talking to you about it. You should eat before it gets cold."
She turned and left before Abigail could press further.
Abigail sat down, her appetite completely gone.
Genevieve's name used to be Dawn? Why was it then changed to Genevieve? She had heard whispers in the past that Genevieve was adopted but she had never really believed it because it did not make sense that her father would treat Genevieve who was adopted better than he treated her who was his biological daughter.
Also Genevieve had not been in the car in her nightmare. So why had the woman called her Dawn, if Genevieve was Dawn?
Something wasn't right. And now, she was determined to find out what.