Chapter 4 - The House on Lake Saranac
Three years later.
The air in Lake Saranac smelled of pine resin, wet earth, and woodsmoke curling lazily from stone chimneys across the valley. It was October, and the maple trees lining the winding country road were bursting in brilliant shades of amber, crimson, and gold.
Clara Bennett stood on the front porch of her white-paneled farmhouse, holding a mug of steaming coffee, watching the morning mist burn off the surface of the lake down the hill.
Her hands weren't calloused anymore. The constant, burning ache in her lower back from twelve-hour shifts scrubbing marble floors had faded into a distant memory. The house—solid, warm, filled with the scent of fresh-baked cinnamon bread and old books—was entirely hers.
“Mama! Look what I found!”
A burst of laughter shattered the morning quiet.
Seven-year-old Lily came tearing around the corner of the porch, her dark brown curls bouncing, her cheeks flushed red from the autumn chill. In her hand, she clutched a smooth, perfectly round blue glass marble she must have found in the garden.
“Look, Mama! It’s the same color as the bottle!” Lily announced proudly, holding it up to the sunlight.
Clara smiled, a deep, peaceful warmth spreading through her chest. She knelt down on the porch boards, taking her daughter’s small hand.
“It sure is, sweetie,” Clara said softly. “Now go wash up. Breakfast is on the table, and the school bus will be here in twenty minutes.”
As Lily darted inside, leaving the screen door swinging behind her, Clara stood up and looked out toward the gravel driveway.
Parked near the white picket fence sat a sleek, unmarked black sedan.
It had been parked there since sunrise.
Clara didn't panic anymore when she saw it. Over the past three years, the sedan had appeared at the edge of the property at least once a season—sometimes in the dead of winter during a blizzard, sometimes in the heat of July. It never stayed long. Sometimes the driver got out to check the mail box; sometimes he just sat behind the wheel reading a newspaper, ensuring the perimeter was secure before quietly disappearing down the mountain road.
A message from the ghost of her old life.
May you like
A reminder that even three hundred miles away from the harbor, the Wolf still kept watch over his own.
Clara took a sip of her coffee, turned around, and walked back inside to feed her daughter, letting the door close behind her with a quiet, secure click.
