Chapter 11 - Blackwood Ridge
The black SUV wound its way up the narrow, pine-lined roads of Blackwood Ridge, kicking up gravel and fallen autumn leaves. The Maine coastline was rugged, cold, and isolated—a world away from the manicured lawns and marble colonnades of the Pierce estate.
Christopher sat in the passenger seat, his eyes tracking every cabin, every dock, every fishing boat moored in the gray water below. Emma was sleeping soundly in the back seat, wrapped in a fleece blanket, with Yvette keeping watch beside her. Two unmarked state police cruisers followed fifty yards behind.
"Up ahead," Vance said from behind the wheel, slowing the vehicle down near a weathered wooden mailbox marked Route 4, Box 12. "Tide’s End Farm. Public records show a Sarah Monroe registered as the deed holder five years ago. Runs an apple orchard and a small horse barn."
Christopher felt his chest tighten. He pulled the door handle before the vehicle had completely stopped, stepping out into the crisp, salty air.
The farm was modest. A red cedar farmhouse stood beside an old barn, surrounded by rows of golden-leafed apple trees. Near the paddock, a small boy in a blue denim jacket and rubber boots was laughing, tossing handfuls of hay over the fence to an old gray pony.
Christopher stopped dead in his tracks.
The boy had Rachel’s wide, expressive hazel-blue eyes. But the structure of his jaw, the thick dark hair curling over his forehead, and the stubborn tilt of his chin—it was like looking into a mirror from thirty years ago.
The porch screen door creaked open with a sharp slap.
A woman in a thick flannel shirt stepped out onto the porch, holding an iron garden rake with white-knuckled intensity. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, her face weathered by outdoor labor, but her eyes held the same fierce, protective fire Rachel had possessed.
"That's far enough," Sarah Monroe called out, her voice hard as flint. "We don't take uninvited visitors up this lane. Turn around and drive back down the hill."
Christopher took two slow steps forward, raising his empty hands. "Sarah. It's Christopher."
Sarah froze. The rake lowered an inch, her eyes widening in disbelief before narrowing into pure terror. "Christopher Pierce? How did you find us? Did she send you?"
"Estelle is in federal custody," Christopher said gently, his voice shaking with raw emotion. "She’s in handcuffs, Sarah. The whole family empire is dismantled. She can never touch you again."
Sarah looked from Christopher to the black SUV, where Yvette was stepping out, gently guiding Emma down from the backseat.
When Sarah saw Emma’s face, the rake slipped from her fingers, clattering loudly against the wooden porch steps. "Emma..."
The little boy near the paddock turned around, wiping dirt from his nose. "Aunt Sarah? Who are those people?"
Emma stepped around the car door, holding Yvette’s hand. She stopped on the gravel path, her wide eyes locking onto the boy in the blue jacket.
May you like
For ten agonizing seconds, nobody moved. The wind whistled through the pine needles, carrying the distant crash of the Atlantic waves.
Then Emma pointed a tiny finger at the boy and whispered, "Daddy... he looks just like me."
