Chapter 5 - The Coastal Station at Dawn
The headlights of the sedan cut through the thick salt mist as I pulled into the empty gravel lot of the coastal train station. It was barely five in the morning. The Atlantic was just a slate-gray line merging into a heavy bank of clouds on the eastern horizon. The town itself—a cluster of weathered clapboard storefronts and dormant lobster shacks—looked ghostly in the pale dawn light. My fingers felt stiff on the steering wheel, the leather cold against my palms. I had driven four hours through the dark, fueled by little more than black coffee and the raw, unmoored ache in my chest.
I killed the engine and sat for a moment in the silence, listening to the rhythmic, distant groan of buoys rising and falling on the swell. My tailored black suit jacket, still carrying the faint scent of the charity gala from the night before, felt entirely out of place here among the damp salt air and rusted gulls. But I didn't care about the clothes, or the impression I made, or the scandal waiting for me back in the city. There was only the image of the wicker bassinet, the empty room, and the fold of heavy paper in my pocket.
Pushing open the car door, I stepped out onto the damp asphalt and walked toward the small, single-story station building. A lone yellow light burned above the wooden door, casting a sickly halo over peeling white paint. Inside, the waiting room smelled of floor wax, coal dust, and old upholstery. A single wooden bench ran along the wall beneath a faded railway map of the eastern seaboard.
Behind a scratched glass partition, an elderly man in a gray station master’s vest was tuning a small transistor radio that hissed with static. He looked up as the bell above the door chimed softly. His eyes swept over my tailored suit, the slight stubble on my jaw, and the dark circles under my eyes before settling on my face with cautious indifference.
"Morning," he said, his voice gravelly and slow. "First passenger train isn't due southbound till six-fifteen. Tickets are handled at the machine by the platform."
"I'm not looking for a ticket," I said, my voice tight and dry. I walked up to the counter, pulling out my leather wallet. From behind a stack of unused timetables, I retrieved the small, professional photograph of Candace—taken during the summer before she was pregnant, her dark wavy hair loose around her shoulders, smiling with that quiet, guarded grace I loved so much.
I slid the photograph across the scarred wooden counter. "I'm looking for her. Did she come through here last night or early this morning?"
The station master adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, leaning down to peer at the glossy print. The radio muttered softly in the background, a weather report calling for rain in the interior hills. He looked from the photograph to my face, studying the lines of exhaustion and the desperate tension in my shoulders. There was no judgment in his expression, only the weary patience of a man who had seen all sorts of people running away from things they couldn't bear.
"Might have," he muttered, tapping a yellowed fingernail against the edge of the counter. "Lot of folks pass through this coast when the season turns. What's she carrying?"
"A baby," I said, the word catching slightly in my throat. "A newborn. In a gray carrier. She might have looked... exhausted. Frightened."
The old man nodded slowly, his gaze drifting toward the window that looked out over the tracks. In the distance, a low, iron rumble began to build against the earth, vibrating through the floorboards beneath my boots.
"Ah," the station master said softly. "That changes the picture. We don't get many mothers with infants out here this time of year unless they're heading up-country."
"She was here?" My heart gave a hard, painful thud against my ribs.
"Midnight bus," the agent said, reaching beneath the counter to pull out a dog-eared schedule book. "Regional line. Goes north past the river towns, right up into the foothills where the logging roads start. Not many people get off at those stops unless they've got family up in the timber country or an old cabin tucked away in the brush."
The rumble outside grew louder as the morning commuter train slid into the station, hissing plumes of white steam against the cold platform lights. I barely glanced at it.
"Did she buy a ticket to the end of the line?" I asked, my hands gripping the edge of the wooden counter.
"Paid cash for a ticket to the third stop past the valley," the agent said, looking up at me with a touch of sympathy in his rheumy eyes. "Said she was visiting relatives. But people traveling alone with a baby at midnight don't usually look like they're going on holiday, son. She looked like she was running for her life."
The words struck me like a physical blow, echoing the silent terror I had felt standing in that luxurious foyer hours ago.
"Can you tell me which road the bus took after the valley?" I asked, pulling out my phone, though I knew the cell service would die once I hit the high country.
The station master pulled a folded paper map from a drawer, spreading it across the glass with a calloused hand. He took a red wooden pencil and drew a firm, diagonal line tracing north away from the coast, cutting up through the dense, winding timberlands toward the gray peaks of the interior.
"Take Route Nine past the reservoir," he said, tapping the pencil tip against a sharp bend in the cartography. "Keep heading up until the pavement ends and the gravel starts. If she got off where I think she did, she's heading deep into the timber. And mister?" He paused, looking up as the train doors hissed shut outside. "If you're going after her, you better drive careful. Those mountain roads don't forgive mistakes."
May you like
I nodded, folding the map with trembling fingers and tucking it into my jacket pocket. I tossed a twenty-dollar bill onto the counter, which he didn't bother to touch, and turned back toward the door. The coastal fog was lifting just enough to reveal the steep, winding highway climbing inland toward the gray, forbidding hills. My pursuit had a direction now, but the distance between us felt heavier than ever.
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