Chapter 22 - The Woodworker with the Silver Eyes
The next morning,
I drove into the small town of Blackwood Cove to gather supplies and establish the facade of a normal life.
The town was a cluster of Victorian buildings and fishing docks,
huddled together as if for warmth against the towering cliffs.
I walked into the local hardware store,
the smell of sawdust and oil grounding me in the reality of the physical world.
I needed locks,
heavy bolts,
and perhaps a security system that didn't rely on the whims of a rural power grid.
"You must be the one who bought the old Miller cottage,"
a voice said,
deep and resonant,
vibrating through the air like a cello string.
I turned,
my hand instinctively reaching for the pepper spray in my pocket.
A man stood behind the counter,
his skin tanned and weathered,
his eyes a startling,
piercing silver that seemed to look right through my defenses.
He was tall,
with the broad shoulders of someone who worked with his hands,
and a beard that was just beginning to show streaks of gray.
"I’m Gabriel,"
he said,
noticing my tensed posture and offering a small,
unassuming smile.
"I do most of the repair work around these parts.
That cottage has been empty a long time;
it’s got a lot of stories in the walls."
"I’m just looking for some security upgrades,"
I replied,
my voice sounding thin and brittle to my own ears.
Gabriel leaned against the counter,
his silver eyes narrowing slightly as he studied me.
"Security,
huh?
In Blackwood Cove,
the only thing people usually worry about is the tide and the occasional hungry bear."
"I prefer to be prepared,"
I said,
placing a set of heavy-duty deadbolts on the counter.
He scanned them,
his movements slow and deliberate,
unlike the frantic,
calculated energy of the men I had known in Chicago.
"You look like someone who’s been running for a long time,"
he said quietly,
as he bagged the locks.
"The ocean is good for that.
It washes things away.
But sometimes,
it brings things back to shore that you thought were gone forever."
The words hit me like a physical blow,
making me wonder if Elena had sent him,
or if he was just another observer in the game of my life.
"I’m just looking for peace,
Gabriel,"
I said,
taking the bag from him.
"Peace isn't something you find,
Mabel Thorne,"
he said,
using my name even though I hadn't given it to him.
"It’s something you build.
And you can't build it on a foundation of fear."
I walked out of the store,
my heart thudding against my ribs,
my mind racing with questions.
How did he know my name?
Was the town already gossiping,
or was Gabriel more than just a local handyman?
I drove back to the cottage,
the beautiful scenery now feeling like a labyrinth of potential hiding places.
I spent the afternoon installing the locks,
the physical labor a welcome distraction from the spiraling of my thoughts.
As the sun dipped below the horizon,
painting the sky in bruises of purple and orange,
I found a package on my doorstep.
It wasn't a bomb,
nor was it a threat.
Inside was a small,
hand-carved wooden bird,
its wings spread as if in mid-flight.
There was no note,
only the faint scent of cedar and the silver-eyed man’s presence.
I held the bird in my hand,
feeling the smoothness of the wood,
wondering if this was a gesture of friendship or a subtle reminder that I was being watched.
I realized then that I had traded one kind of surveillance for another,
May you like
and that in Blackwood Cove,
everyone had a role to play in the theater of the small town.
