Chapter 3 - The Ghost Town by the Coast
It took forty-eight hours of non-stop tracking to find her. Elizabeth hadn't used credit cards or reached out to her distant family in Chicago. She was smarter than that. She had bought a Greyhound bus ticket with cash, changed lines twice in Pennsylvania, and ended up in a forgotten coastal village in Maine called Shelter Cove.
The rain beat down relentlessly against the windshield of the unassuming black sedan as we idled at the edge of the rocky harbor. It was late afternoon, the Atlantic ocean churning with dark, slate-gray waves that slammed against the rotting wood of lobster docks. It was a million miles away from the temperature-controlled penthouses, high-end caterers, and private security guards of Manhattan. Here, the salt air rusted iron, and survival was measured in cords of firewood.
"She's renting a two-room cottage behind the bait shop," Luca murmured from the passenger seat, pointing through the fog toward a small weathered-shingle house with peeling white trim. Smoke drifted sluggishly from the stone chimney. "She bought groceries this morning. Milk, oatmeal, fresh vegetables. The local doctor checked her blood pressure two hours ago. Luca pulled the chart quietly—both she and the baby are healthy, Marcus."
Hearing the word baby aloud caused an involuntary shiver to run through my spine. A father. I was a father, sitting in a dark car like an assassin, watching my wife carry groceries into a drafty shack because she felt safer facing freezing Atlantic winds than living under my roof.
"Stay here," I said, unbuckling my seatbelt.
"Marcus, you want backup? The local sheriff might ask questions—"
"I don't need backup to apologize to my wife," I snapped softly, opening the door into the biting downpour.
The wind hit me like a slap, soaking through my wool coat within seconds. I walked up the muddy gravel driveway, my boots crunching under the rhythm of the waves crashing against the rocks below. Through the small front window, illuminated by a single warm floor lamp, I could see her.
Elizabeth was wearing an oversized gray knit sweater, stirring a pot on an electric stove. Her hair was pulled back in a loose, messy bun. She turned slightly to reach for a spice bottle, and my heart stopped. Through the thick wool of her sweater, the curve of her belly was unmistakable. A soft, round swell that hadn't been visible beneath the structured, tight dresses she wore to please my associates. She looked radiant, completely unbothered by the humble surroundings, yet intensely lonely.
I stepped onto the small wooden porch. The boards creaked beneath my weight. I didn't knock with the heavy authority of Marcus Vance, ruler of five boroughs. I tapped gently, my knuckles hesitant against the flimsy screen door.
Inside, Elizabeth froze. The wooden spoon hovered above the pot. She turned slowly, her hazel eyes scanning the dark glass. When her gaze landed on my drenched figure standing in the rain, the spoon clattered against the linoleum floor.
May you like
The color drained from her face. Fear—raw, instinctual fear—flickered across her features. She took a step back, her hands instinctively flying to cover her belly in a defensive shield. That movement alone cut deeper than any hollow-point bullet ever could. My own wife believed I had come to take her child by force.
I didn't reach for the doorknob. Instead, I stepped back toward the edge of the porch, raising both empty hands into the cold rain, and waited.
