Chapter 6 - The Road North
The drive north toward Port City was a blur of gray asphalt, endless pine trees, and a storm brewing heavy and dark over the ocean.
My hands gripped the steering wheel so hard my forearms ached. The radio was off; the only sound inside the car was the rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers as a cold autumn rain began to spit against the glass.
Every mile brought me closer to a confrontation I never imagined having.
For five years, I had defined myself by my loss. My identity was built around being the grieving widower, the loyal husband who kept his promise to a dead woman's mother. Now, every single pillar of my existence had been hollowed out, replaced by a monstrous, suffocating lie.
Why?
That was the question screaming inside my head over and over again. Why would Isabelle fake her death? Our marriage wasn't perfect, but I loved her with every fiber of my being. We didn't fight constantly. There was no abuse, no hidden darkness that warranted erasing herself from the face of the earth.
Unless... the darkness wasn't mine to see.
By mid-afternoon, the highway gave way to the industrial docks and maritime warehouses of Port City. It was a bustling commercial hub, filled with shipping containers, seafood processing plants, and salt-stained brick buildings.
I pulled my car into the parking lot of Port City Maritime Bank.
I didn't go inside to speak to a teller this time. I sat in the car, pulling out the printed dossier Mr. Vance had given me. It contained the address associated with the external account holder, Elena Vance—which, as I quickly realized through a quick public records search on my phone, was a common-law name using a middle name and a fabricated surname.
The address was a residential marina on the northern edge of the city: Slip 14, Pelican Bay Marinas.
A marina. A boat slip.
The pieces began clicking together with terrifying clarity. If you want to disappear without a trace, a coastal town with hundreds of transient boats and easy access to international waters is the ultimate hiding place.
I put the car back in gear and drove toward the marina.
The rain was coming down harder now, turning the asphalt into a glistening mirror reflecting the harsh neon lights of the dockside warehouses. Pelican Bay Marinas was a sprawling complex of wooden piers, bobbing sailboat masts, and weathered marine offices.
I parked near Slip 14 and stepped out into the biting wind.
Tucked into the slip was a sleek, modern thirty-foot cruiser named The Serenade. Its teak decks were immaculate, and warm light shone through the smoked-glass cabin windows. A single mooring line secured it to the wooden dock.
I walked down the rain-slicked pier, my shoes making a hollow clack-clack sound against the planks.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.
As I approached the stern of the boat, I saw a woman sitting inside the illuminated cabin. Her back was to the sliding glass hatch, but even through the tinted window, I recognized the unmistakable curve of her shoulders, the way her dark hair fell in soft waves down her back.
May you like
Isabelle.
She was alive.
