Chapter 15 - the third thread
I slammed my foot on the accelerator, the tires spinning momentarily on the mud before catching traction. The car surged forward, spraying mud behind us as I veered down the winding mountain trail.
In the rearview mirror, the black sedan maintained a steady, ominous distance, its high beams illuminating the interior of our car in harsh white light. Lily whimpered from the back seat, burying her face into her mother's lap.
"Hold on!" I shouted as we approached a sharp hair-pin turn near the bottom of the ridge. I yanked the steering wheel to the right, the tires screeching against the wet asphalt as we slid dangerously close to the wooden guardrail before straightening out onto the main highway.
The sedan hesitated at the sharp turn, losing valuable ground. Taking advantage of the distance, I turned off into a side alley near an industrial park, pulling behind a line of large shipping containers and turning off my headlights.
The black car roared past the alley entrance seconds later, disappearing down the highway into the rainy dark.
Sarah let out a shaky breath, her hands trembling violently as she stroked Lily's hair. "Who were they? Clara, what did your mother get us into?"
"Julian Thorne is still alive," I said, staring at the dimly lit steering wheel. "And he's been monitoring anyone who gets close to Eleanor's old properties. He must have had a tracker on the cottage or watched the road."
"We can't go to River Street looking like this," Sarah said, pointing to the mud splattered across our clothes. "And if they saw your car, they might be waiting at the antique shop."
"Then we don't take the car," I replied, grabbing the beige business card from the dashboard. "We park three blocks away, go on foot through the alleyways, and find M. Sterling before Thorne's people do."
We parked in a public garage in the city center and walked through the torrential downpour toward the historic riverfront district. River Street was lined with narrow, three-story brick buildings dating back to the late nineteenth century.
May you like
Number 142 was a dark, narrow shopfront with dusty glass windows displaying brass telescopes, antique clocks, and stacks of yellowed books. Above the door hung a iron sign that creaked softly in the wind: Sterling's.
I pushed the heavy door open, a brass bell chiming softly above our heads.
