Chapter 13 - Whispers in the Harbor
The quiet, salt-sprayed mornings of Havenbrook suddenly became suffocating.
Every delivery truck that rumbled down the cobblestone road made my heart leap into my throat.
Every unfamiliar face drinking coffee at the marina cafe looked like an operative sent by Victoria Vance.
Three days had passed since our vows, and the mahogany box remained untouched on the shelf, an ominous ticking bomb inside our home.
Adrian spent hours on the porch, speaking on an encrypted satellite phone in languages I didn't understand—Russian, French, and gutter Sicilian.
The humble, penitent man who had spent six months painting my nursery and buying my groceries had retreated behind a mask of chilling authority.
I walked through the village market with Sophia strapped securely against my chest in a cotton carrier.
Mrs. Gable, the elderly baker who had baked our wedding cake, waved at me from behind her flour-dusted counter.
"Morning, Claire!" she called out cheerfully.
"Heard you had quite the fancy visitor at the chapel on your wedding day."
I froze just outside the door of the bakery, the cold sea mist clinging to my eyelashes.
"Just an old acquaintance of Adrian's, Mrs. Gable," I replied, forcing a polite, easy smile.
The old woman leaned forward, lowering her voice with genuine concern.
"Well, he wasn't the only one snooping around, dear."
"Yesterday afternoon, two men in dark trench coats came by the post office."
"They were asking questions about the clinic where you gave birth."
"They wanted the name of the attending doctor and copies of the newborn registry."
A wave of icy dread washed over me, chilling me to the core.
"What did you tell them?" I managed to ask, keeping my hands resting protectively over Sophia’s back.
"We told them to jump off the north cliff, of course," Mrs. Gable snorted, wiping her hands on her apron.
"Havenbrook takes care of its own."
"Tom at the harbor told them his boat engine was broken, so they couldn't hire a ferry either."
"Thank you, Mrs. Gable," I murmured, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to sound casual.
I didn't finish my shopping.
I turned on my heel and walked rapidly back along the shoreline path toward our isolated cottage.
The ocean wind was picking up, swirling dead kelp across the sand like withered black ribbons.
As I reached the wooden gate of our property, I noticed something that made my stomach drop into an abyss.
The tire tracks of Adrian’s truck were gone.
Instead, parked directly on our front lawn, stood a silver Maybach with tinted bulletproof glass.
Standing by the porch, holding an unlit Virginia Slim cigarette, was an elderly woman draped in a tailored cashmere trench coat.
Her silver hair was swept up into an immaculate chignon, her emerald eyes identical to Adrian’s, but entirely devoid of soul.
May you like
Victoria Vance had arrived in Havenbrook.
And she was staring directly at the child strapped against my heart.
