Chapter 3 - The Engine of Newark
The black town car cut through the industrial gloom of northern New Jersey, passing rust-streaked warehouses and forgotten rail yards. Clara sat rigidly against the leather seat, watching the neon signs flicker and die. Julian said nothing during the forty-minute ride, his gaze fixed on the GPS map counting down the miles. He wasn't chasing a financial merger; he was chasing the only man who could clear his family’s blood-stained conscience.
They pulled up to a brick garage smelling of motor oil and rotting timber. Clara led him up a narrow flight of wooden stairs that groaned under every footstep. The door at the end had no lock, only an old brass latch. She pushed it open. The single bare bulb in the ceiling cast long, yellow shadows over workbenches cluttered with microscopic gears, glass lenses, and tin cans full of screws.
In the corner sat an old man in a gray wool sweater with unraveling cuffs. His hair was thin and white, but his spine remained ruler-straight. He didn't look up from the pocket watch under his magnifying lamp. "You’re late, Clara," the old man said, voice gravelly and slow. "You left your tea to go cold."
