Chapter 4 - The House on Maple Street
Back in the valley town of Colville, the small three-bedroom house on Maple Street was bathed in the warm light of early evening.
Sandra Carter sat at the kitchen table, wearing a new faux-fur trim sweater, sipping white wine while admiring her fresh acrylic manicure.
Across from her sat my father, Thomas, staring blankly into his lukewarm coffee, looking older, hollowed out, and worn down to the bone.
On the sideboard sat the cardboard box they had stolen from me—my mother’s cassette tapes, family albums, and the delicate glass bird perched carelessly next to an overflowing ashtray.
“The probate hearing is set for Friday morning, Thomas,” Sandra said, tapping her wine glass with a painted nail. “The judge will declare Clara officially estranged, which allows us to consolidate the timber royalties from the old family parcel.”
Thomas flinched slightly, rubbing his tired eyes.
“It’s been twenty-four days, Sandra,” Thomas muttered, his voice hoarse with unease. “There was a blizzard up on Cougar Ridge two weeks ago. What if… what if she didn't make it?”
Sandra waved her hand dismissively, letting out an irritated puff of air.
“Oh, stop being so melodramatic, Thomas! Clara has always been dramatic like her mother. She probably walked down the south trail to the logging highway and hitched a ride to Spokane. She’s probably waiting tables in a diner right now, waiting for us to feel guilty and call her.”
She stood up, walking over to the cardboard box on the sideboard, picking up my mother’s glass bird and turning it casually in the light.
“Besides,” Sandra sneered, “we gave her two years of shelter after she turned eighteen. She owed us that savings money for back rent anyway. When the timber royalties clear, we can finally sell this pathetic bungalow and buy that townhouse in Coeur d'Alene.”
Before Thomas could answer, the rumble of a heavy engine vibrated through the quiet suburban street.
Headlights swept across the living room window, casting long, sharp shadows across the furniture.
A sleek black government-issue SUV pulled up to the curb, followed closely by a pristine, roaring vintage Ford F-250 with a roaring exhaust.
Thomas stood up, frowning through the sheer curtains.
“Who is that? The county sheriff?”
Sandra set her wine glass down, stepping to the window with an annoyed scowl. “Probably the neighbors complaining about the driveway snow again.”
The heavy front door of the F-250 swung open.
Stepping down into the fresh snow was a tall, fierce young woman wearing a heavy shearling coat, dark leather work boots, and a fur-lined hat.
Her chin was held high, her eyes as cold and gray as mountain slate, radiating a calm, absolute authority that completely filled the quiet street.
Beside her, leaping down from the passenger seat, was a massive German shepherd with broad shoulders and an unblinking, protective stare.
Thomas’s knees buckled. His coffee cup slipped from his fingers, shattering across the linoleum floor in a dark splash of liquid and broken ceramic.
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“Clara…?” Thomas choked out, his face draining of every drop of color.
Sandra stared through the glass, her painted smile freezing into a grotesque, waxen grimace of pure, unadulterated terror.
