Chapter 4 - THE COASTAL COTTAGEI didn’t pack a bag. I didn’t call my office.
I drove straight to Maine.
Margaret insisted on coming. She said she had failed my mother once thirty years ago, and she wouldn’t do it again.
It took us five hours to reach the small, windswept town of Camden. The sky was bruising into a deep, stormy purple by the time we arrived.
The address written on the back of the train ticket led us to a tiny cottage at the end of a dirt road, perched on a rocky cliff overlooking the ocean.
There were no lights on inside.
I parked the car and told Margaret to wait.
The wind howled off the water, biting through my thin dress shirt. I realized I was still wearing the trousers from my tuxedo.
I walked up the wooden steps. They creaked under my weight.
The front door was slightly ajar.
Panic seized my chest.
“Mom?” I called out. The word felt strange, yet entirely natural on my tongue.
I pushed the door open.
The cottage had been ransacked.
Chairs were overturned. Books were scattered across the braided rug. A ceramic mug lay shattered in the kitchen.
Someone had been here. Recently.
I walked slowly through the living room, my blood turning to ice.
“Is anyone here?” I yelled.
Silence.
I stepped into the small bedroom. The mattress was stripped. Clothes were thrown haphazardly on the floor.
But sitting perfectly centered on the bare mattress was an object that made my stomach drop.
A silver pocket watch.
I recognized it instantly. It had a deep scratch across the glass face.
It belonged to Victoria’s father, Charles Ashford. He wore it on a gold chain every single day.
Why was it here?
I picked it up. The metal was still warm.
I spun around.
Standing in the doorway of the bedroom was a woman.
She was in her mid-fifties, wearing a heavy wool coat. Her face was lined with years of stress, but her eyes...
Her eyes were exactly like mine.
She held a heavy iron fireplace poker in her hands, trembling violently.
“Who are you?” she demanded, her voice cracking. “Did Charles send you?”
I froze.
“Mom?” I breathed.
She blinked. The iron poker lowered just a fraction of an inch.
She stared at my face. At my jawline. At my eyes.
“Ethan?” she whispered.
Before I could answer, headlights washed across the bedroom window. The crunch of gravel echoed from the driveway outside.
Multiple cars. Heavy doors slamming.
My mother grabbed my arm, her grip shockingly strong.
“We have to go,” she hissed. “Right now.”
“Who is out there?” I asked.
May you like
She looked at me, tears welling in her eyes.
“It’s not Charles Ashford,” she said. “It’s Lily. She betrayed us.”
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