Chapter 6 - The Man in the Sawdust
The man holding the shotgun looked like he had been assembled from scrap iron and leather.
He was tall, with broad, hunched shoulders beneath a threadbare canvas coat that smelled of kerosene, damp tobacco, and machine grease. A jagged, silver burn scar ran from his right jawline down into his unbuttoned collar, pulling the corner of his mouth into a permanent, cynical grimace. In his left hand, he held a heavy twelve-gauge Remington pump; his right hand rested on the grip with the casual ease of a man who had killed things and never lost sleep over it.
I slowly raised my trembling hands, rain streaming down my face, washing the blood from my forehead down into my eyes.
"My dad was David Miller," I stammered, my teeth clicking together so violently I could barely enunciate. "His... his real name was Julian Ashford."
The man didn't lower the barrel. His gray, hard eyes narrowed into slits beneath heavy, graying eyebrows. "Julian Ashford has been ash in a family vault for twelve years. You're trespassing on private land, girl. Tell me who sent you before I feed you to the river."
"Grant Ashford," I choked out, the name tasting like poison. "He ran our car off Blackwood Ridge. My mom... Mara... she's still up there in the wreck. She told me to find Silas."
At the name Mara, the barrel of the shotgun dipped an inch. The man’s jaw set hard enough to crack granite.
"Mara," he repeated, barely above a whisper. "Where is she?"
"Trapped. In the car. Between two rocks below the road." I reached down with shaking fingers toward my left shoe.
The shotgun instantly snapped back to my chest with a loud CLACK-CLACK. "Hands where I can see them!"
"It's the ring!" I cried out, tearing off my soaked sneaker and pulling the heavy gold band from the sole. I held it out in my palm, open and defenseless in the pouring rain. "Mom said Dad wanted me to have it! Look at the crest!"
Silas stepped forward, snatched the ring from my hand, and turned it toward the faint moonlight breaking through the storm clouds. He rubbed his thumb over the dent on the outer band, then flipped it over, his scarred fingernail tracing the tiny, intricate engraving hidden on the inner rim: Non Sibi Sed Omnibus — J.A.
A strange, broken sound escaped the man’s throat. The shotgun lowered completely, its barrel pointing harmlessly at the floorboards.
"Julian," he murmured. His iron frame seemed to sag under an invisible, crushing weight. He looked at me, really looked at me, studying the curve of my jaw, the shape of my nose, and the dark, defiant eyes staring back at him. "God Almighty. You have his exact stare."
Before he could say another word, the sharp beam of a high-powered searchlight swept across the riverbank, cutting through the mill's rotted siding.
"Silas!" a voice amplified through a megaphone boomed across the water. "We know the brat ran this way! Send her out with the heirloom, and Mr. Ashford will let you keep breathing in that rat hole!"
May you like
Silas didn't flinch. He slipped the ring into his heavy coat pocket, grabbed my collar with one massive fist, and hoisted me off the ground like a sack of grain.
"Welcome to the family business, kid," Silas growled, kicking open a hidden floor hatch beneath a pile of sawdust. "Time to go to work."
