Oliver Whitmore had always been the apple of his parents eye. Born into a well-off family in the Cotswolds, he was the pride of the Whitmorestop schools, rugby captain, and eventually taking over his dads lucrative property business. Life was all fancy cars, posh dinners, and everyone fawning over him. But there was one problem he couldnt shake: his mum, Eleanor Whitmore.
A rich bloke shoved his wheelchair-bound mum off a cliff. But he didnt reckon with her dog
Eleanor used to be full of lifekind, sharp as a tack, the heart of the family. Then, five years back, a car crash left her paralysed. Overnight, she went from running charity galas to needing round-the-clock care. Oliver, always chasing the next big deal, had no time for it. Resentment festered. To him, she was just a burden, a reminder of everything holding him back. When his dad passed, leaving him the family fortune, all he saw was the hassle of looking after her.
One evening, as they sat on the terrace of their sprawling estatecliffs dropping to the sea belowan idea crept into Olivers mind. The waves crashed, the wind whistled, and for the first time in years, he felt a glimmer of freedom. If Eleanor wasnt there no more carers, no more guilt, no more pretending.
His fingers twitched. Itd be easy. That cliff had claimed lives beforetragic accidents, theyd say. One push, and itd be over.
Beside him, his old Labrador, Winston, dozed lazily, none the wiser. Oliver turned to his mum, who was gazing at the horizon, oblivious. The woman whod raised him, loved himnow just an obstacle.
With a sharp breath, he gripped her shoulders. “Youve had your time, Mum,” he muttered. Thenshove.
Her cry was cut short as she vanished over the edge. Oliver stood frozen, heart hammering. It was done. He was free.
But as he turned to leave, a whimper stopped him. Winston was pawing at the cliffs edge, barking wildly, like he *knew*. Olivers stomach lurched, but he clenched his fists. “Nothing to fuss about,” he told himself, striding off.
The police came, of course. But with Eleanors condition, they wrote it off as a tragic slip. Oliver played the grieving son perfectly. The estate was his now, the business finally unshackled.
ExceptWinston wouldnt let it go. The dog kept returning to the cliff, howling like his heart was broken. Oliver tried ignoring him, then shouting, even locking him out. But Winston just dug under the gate, relentless.
Nights grew unbearable. Oliver would wake in a cold sweat, the dogs cries echoing. That old family photoEleanor, Winston, himseemed to glare from the wall. Guilt gnawed at him, no matter how much whisky he poured.
Then, one day, Winston vanished. Oliver almost sighed with reliefuntil he saw the dug-up earth by the gate. Had the dog *figured it out*?
Weeks passed. Oliver threw himself back into work, schmoozing at country clubs, pretending all was well. Maybe hed outrun it.
Until, one dusk, walking the coastal path, he heard ita bark. Winston stood at the cliffs edge, staring him down. Those sad, knowing eyes. Olivers blood ran cold.
“Piss off,” he hissed, but the dog didnt budge. Instead, Winston growled, stepping closer, like he was *judging* him. Oliver lunged, but the dog dodgedand Olivers foot caught on a root.
For a heartbeat, he flailed. Thenair. The world tipped. The rocks rushed up. His scream was lost in the wind as he fell, just like Eleanor had.
The last thing he saw? Winston, watching from abovethe loyal hound whod never let him forget.
And as the sea swallowed Oliver Whitmore, the only legacy left was the one hed tried to bury: betrayal, and a dog who remembered *everything*.
