Chapter 4 - Shadows on the Porch
Dawn came with a pale, washed-out light that filtered through the moss-draped live oaks lining the street. The rain had finally stopped, leaving behind the rich, pungent scent of wet earth and blossoming magnolias.
I descended the stairs into the studio carrying Noah on my hip. The boy was bubbling with energy, babbling nonsense syllables and reaching for the bright blue ceramic bowls displayed on the drying racks. I kept one arm firmly around his waist, half-expecting to see Alexander's broad silhouette pressed against the front glass.
The street outside was empty.
For a brief, illogical second, an ache flared in the center of my ribs. Had he finally given up? Had he seen the disdain in my eyes, heard my declaration that he was dead to me, and climbed back into his armored SUV to return to his empire of glass and concrete?
*You should be glad,* I told myself fiercely, setting Noah down in his padded wooden playpen surrounded by soft cotton toys. You wanted peace. You built this life so Noah wouldn't have to grow up under the shadow of bodyguards and blood money.
A soft chime above the front door interrupted my thoughts.
The door swung open, but it wasn't Alexander. It was Miss Clara, the elderly widow who ran the bakery two doors down. She bustled inside carrying a wicker basket draped with a red-and-white checkered cloth, her flour-dusted face furrowed with deep concern.
"Lord have mercy, Claire child," Miss Clara whispered, hurriedly latching the door behind her and peering through the lace curtains. "Who is that giant of a man sitting out on the bench near the town square? He looks like an undertaker from a foreign movie, all dressed in black wool and staring at your shop like he's guarding the crown jewels."
My breath hitched. "He's still there?"
"Has been since sunrise," Miss Clara said, setting the warm basket of cinnamon rolls onto my counter. "Sheriff Miller drove his cruiser past him twice, thought about asking him for identification, but took one good look at the man's posture and decided he had pressing business down at the diner instead. People around here don't like strangers with that kind of cold look in their eye, Claire. Is he... is he someone from your old life?"
Everyone in our sleepy Georgia town knew I was a single mother who had moved from up north after a tragic family split. They were polite enough never to pry, respecting the quiet, hardworking young woman who made exquisite teacups and never asked for handouts.
"He's someone I used to know," I murmured, staring at the floor.
"Well, he looks starved and halfway frozen," Miss Clara noted dryly, though her maternal eyes were sharp with understanding. "And he's got that look a man gets when he realizes he dropped his only coin down a deep well. If you need me to call my nephews to run him off with their hunting rifles, you just say the word."
I couldn't help the small, humorless laugh that escaped my lips. Alexander Moretti had survived car bombings, sniper fire, and federal wiretaps. Two country boys with deer rifles wouldn't even cause him to blink.
"No, Miss Clara. Thank you, but that won't be necessary," I said softly. "I'll handle him."
After Miss Clara left, I prepared a small thermos of black coffee. I didn't add sugar or cream—Alexander had always taken his coffee bitter, claiming that sweetness dulled his senses. I strapped Noah into his stroller, grabbed my cardigan, and unlocked the front door.
The morning air was crisp. As soon as my boots hit the brick sidewalk, the figure sitting on the park bench two hundred feet away stiffened.
Alexander rose slowly to his feet. He looked haggard. Dark purple shadows bruised the skin beneath his eyes, his designer stubble was rough and untamed, and his linen shirt was wrinkled beneath his coat. But the moment his gaze caught Noah kicking his chubby legs in the stroller, his entire posture crumbled.
He didn't march toward us with the swagger of a Chicago kingpin. He took slow, cautious steps, keeping his hands visible in front of him, like a man approaching a wounded animal that might bolt at the slightest provocation.
"Claire," he said quietly as he stopped six feet away.
"You're drawing attention," I said, my voice deliberately neutral as I extended the thermos toward him. "Take the coffee. Sit down before someone calls the state police on you."
He looked at the thermos, then up at my face. A sudden, unexpected warmth flickered in the depths of his dark eyes, so vulnerable it made my throat tighten.
May you like
"You remembered how I take it," he murmured.
"Don't flatter yourself," I replied coolly. "I just don't need a corpse rotting on my sidewalk."
