Chapter 5 - The Lantern in the Window
The cold hit me like a physical blow, driving the breath straight from my lungs. The wind off the North Atlantic was merciless, carrying thick sheets of freezing sleet that stung my eyes and froze my eyelashes within seconds.
I could barely see ten feet ahead. To my left, the ocean roared in the darkness—a violent, foaming beast smashing against the black granite cliffs, sending freezing plumes of spray high into the freezing air. Every step required an agonizing effort; the snow had drifted up to my waist in the dips along the rocky coastal path.
My designer leather boots were soaked through in minutes, my toes growing completely numb. My lungs burned with the icy air. Once, my foot slipped on a patch of black ice beneath the powder, and I plunged sideways, my knees slamming hard against a jagged granite outcropping. The pain was blinding, but I forced myself back up, clutching my chest to ensure the ivory envelope and the ultrasound scans were still safe beneath my coat.
Keep going, I told myself through chattering teeth. She sat alone in that clinic. She endured that terror by herself because of you. You don't get to stop.
After what felt like hours of crawling through the blinding storm, a faint, flickering amber glow pierced the whiteout ahead.
It was an old kerosene lantern, hanging from the front porch rafter of a small, weather-beaten cottage perched precariously on the bluff. The house was completely dark except for that single point of light, its shingles coated in a thick shell of glittering ice.
I dragged myself up the front steps, my limbs trembling with hypothermic exhaustion, and hammered on the heavy oak door with my frozen fist.
""Claire!"" I screamed against the howl of the wind. ""Claire, please! Open the door!""
No sound came from inside.
Panic, colder and more terrifying than the ocean wind, seized my throat. What if she had collapsed? What if the stress had triggered premature contractions? What if she was lying on the floor, unable to reach the phone, while our daughter struggled for oxygen?
I threw my shoulder against the door. The ancient brass lock rattled, but held firm. I stepped back, preparing to throw my full body weight against the wood to splinter the frame, when the deadbolt clicked.
The door swung inward.
Claire stood in the doorway, wrapped in an oversized wool sweater and a thick tartan blanket. In her right hand, she held an iron fireplace poker, raised defensively. Her hair was pulled back in a messy braid, her face pale and drawn in the dim light of a candle burning on the side table.
When she saw my face—caked in ice, bleeding from a cut across my cheek where a frozen branch had slashed me, shivering uncontrollably—the poker slowly lowered to her side.
Her eyes were completely dry. There was no anger, no theatrical outrage, no tears. There was only a profound, devastating exhaustion.
""How did you find me, Ryan?"" she asked softly, her voice barely carrying over the wind.
May you like
""Your planner,"" I choked out, my teeth clicking violently together. ""In your desk. Claire... the storm... the power lines are down for miles.""
She looked at me for a long moment, then stepped back into the shadows of the cottage. ""Come inside before you freeze to death on the porch. But don't you dare think this changes anything.""
