Oliver Whitmore had always been the apple of his parents eye. From his posh boarding school days to taking the reins of his fathers booming property business, he was the picture of successwealthy, well-connected, and adored by everyone in their affluent Surrey circles. But there was one thorn in his side: his mum, Eleanor Whitmore.
Five years ago, a car crash left Eleanor paralysed. Once a lively, sharp-witted woman who ran charity galas and hosted lavish garden parties, she now relied entirely on others. Oliver, always chasing the next big deal, found her needs suffocating. The hospital visits, the carers, the guiltit all gnawed at him. When his dad passed last year, leaving him the family fortune, all he could see was his mums condition dragging him down.
One evening, as they sat on the terrace of their grand estate overlooking the Dover cliffs, the sea roaring below, a wicked idea took root. If she were gone, hed be freeno more obligations, no more pitying glances from his high-society friends.
His old Labrador, Baxter, dozed at his feet, blissfully unaware. Oliver turned to Eleanor, who was gazing at the sunset, oblivious. With a cold resolve, he stood behind her. “Mum, youve had your time,” he muttered, then shoved her over the edge.
Her cry was swallowed by the wind as she vanished. Oliver exhaledit was done. But as he turned to leave, Baxter sprang up, barking wildly, pacing near the cliffs edge. Olivers stomach twisted, but he shrugged it off. “Enough,” he snapped, storming inside.
The police called it a tragic accident. A frail woman, a slippery edgeplausible enough. Oliver inherited everything, but his relief was short-lived. Baxter refused to leave the spot where Eleanor had fallen. Day after day, the dog whined at the cliffs, as if waiting for her return.
Olivers patience wore thin. He locked Baxter out, ignored his howls, but the guilt crept in. Nights grew restless, the silence heavy with Eleanors absence. Then, Baxter vanished. Oliver assumed hed run offuntil he noticed claw marks under the garden gate.
Weeks later, strolling the beach at dusk, Oliver heard a familiar bark. Baxter stood atop the cliff, staring down with an almost human accusation. Olivers blood ran cold. “What do you want?” he choked out. The dog growled, stepping forwardforcing Oliver back.
His foot slipped. The world tilted. As he plummeted toward the same rocks that had claimed Eleanor, his last sight was Baxter, watching silentlya loyal witness to justice served. The waves below sealed his fate, leaving only the echo of his betrayal and a dog who never forgot.
