Oliver Whitmore had always been the golden child of the Whitmore dynasty. From infancy, he was the jewel in the crown of his affluent parents, respected figures in London society. He attended Eton, shone on the rugby pitch, and eventually inherited his fathers flourishing property empire. His world was gildedmansions in Kensington, influence in Parliament, the envy of every dinner party. Yet one shadow loomed over his perfect existence: his mother, Beatrice Whitmore.
Once a force of nature, Beatrice had been left wheelchair-bound after a tragic collision on the M25 five winters past. The woman whod once hosted charity galas at Claridges now required round-the-clock care. Oliver, ever the pragmatist, had no stomach for sentiment. He resented the hospital appointments, the nurses traipsing through his Mayfair townhouse, the way her frailty tethered him. When his father died of a heart attack the previous autumn, the family fortune passed to himbut Beatrices condition was an anchor dragging him down.
One dusky evening, as they took tea on the terrace of their Cornish cliffside estate, the crash of waves against the rocks below stirred something in Oliver. The salt air tasted like liberation. If only she werent thereno more prescriptions, no more pitying glances from the country set. Just freedom.
The idea slithered into his mind like fog over the moors. An accident. The cliffs were treacherous; tourists vanished here every summer. One firm shove, and the sea would erase everything.
His aging Labrador, Winston, dozed at his feet, blissfully ignorant. Beatrice gazed at the horizon, her shawl fluttering like a ghost. Olivers fingers tightened on the handles of her chair.
Youve had your time, Mother, he murmured. Thenhe pushed.
Her cry was swallowed by the wind as she vanished over the edge. Oliver stood rigid, pulse hammering. It was done.
But thena whimper. Winston was at the cliffs edge, paws scrabbling at the turf, barking wildly into the abyss. Olivers gut twisted, but he turned away. Enough, he muttered.
The inquest was swift. A tragic mishap, the coroner ruledno surprise for a woman who couldnt walk. The estate was his. The solicitors nodded sympathetically. Yet Olivers victory soured by sundown.
Winston refused to leave the cliff. Day after day, the dog howled at the crashing waves below, as if summoning a voice lost to the tides. Oliver barred him from the house, threw stones to drive him off, but the beast was relentless.
Nights became a torment. The portrait of Beatrice in the drawing room seemed to watch him. Winstons barks echoed through his dreams like a tolling bell.
Then, one morning, the dog vanished. Oliver found claw marks by the garden gatedeep, frantic. Had Winston understood?
Weeks slid by. Oliver resumed his life, claret-soaked evenings at Whites, deals struck over grouse shoots. The past, he told himself, was buried.
Until dusk on the solstice. Walking the coastal path, Oliver heard a familiar growl. Winston stood silhouetted atop the cliff, fur matted with salt spray. Those amber eyes held no love nowonly accusation.
Olivers throat went dry. What do you want? he croaked. The dog advanced, lips curled. Oliver stumbled back, foot skidding on wet grass.
For a heartbeat, he hung in the airthen fell. The rocks rushed up to meet him, the same teeth that had claimed Beatrice. The last thing he saw was Winston, watching from above, a silent sentinel of vengeance.
The Atlantic swallowed Oliver Whitmore whole, leaving only the wind and the dogs mournful howla requiem for the treacherous son.
