Chapter 6 - The Arrival at the Edge of the World
The third day brought the worst Atlantic gale the Maine coastline had seen in years.
Wind howled against the wooden logs of the cabin, bending the tall pine trees until they creaked like ancient ship masts. Thunder shook the cliffs, and waves crashed against the rocks below, sending clouds of white foam seventy feet into the air.
Inside the cabin, the clock on the mantelpiece clicked softly.
11:15 PM.
Forty-five minutes remained.
I sat by the window, wrapped in a heavy wool blanket, watching the dark road that led through the forest toward the cabin.
The fire in the hearth was dying down to red embers. On the table beside me lay the key to the cabin, next to a box of long wooden matches.
Patricia stepped out of the bedroom, carrying two small travel bags.
"The storm is getting worse, Eleanor," she said gently. "The local roads are going to flood by midnight. If we're going to make the drive to the private airfield in Portland, we need to leave now."
I looked down at the key resting on the table.
Forty-five minutes.
"Ten more minutes, Patricia," I whispered, my voice thick with quiet grief. "Just ten more minutes."
Patricia sighed softly, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. "Eleanor... it's been six years. He's the Don of Chicago now. He has an army, a war on his hands, and millions of dollars at stake. He isn't the boy who brought you here in a rusted pickup truck."
I knew she was right. Every logical part of my brain told me she was right.
I picked up the box of matches. My fingers trembled as I struck one against the side. The tiny yellow flame flickered to life, illuminating the quiet dark room.
I reached toward the honeymoon photograph, ready to drop the burning match onto the faded paper and let the past turn to ash once and for all.
Suddenly—
High beams of yellow light sliced through the pitch-black storm outside.
A engine roared through the howling wind, its tires screeching frantically against the wet gravel of the driveway.
My heart stopped beating. The match burned down to my fingers, stinging my skin, but I couldn't move.
Outside, a black SUV slammed to a halt, hitting the wooden fence by the porch so hard the bumper cracked. The driver’s door was thrown open, and a solitary figure vaulted out into the torrential downpour.
He didn't have an escort of black armored sedans.
He didn't have bodyguards carrying automatic rifles.
He didn't even have an umbrella.
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Adrian Morgan ran up the wooden steps of the porch, stumbling, his boots sliding against the slick wood. He slammed his body against the cabin door, pounding frantically with his bare, bloody fists.
"Eleanor!" his voice shattered through the wooden door, raw, screaming, and broken by the wind. "Eleanor, please! Open the door! Please!"
