Chapter 3 - The Drive Through The Suburbs
The tailpipe of my gray sedan rattled a low, metallic rhythm against the damp pavement of the restaurant parking lot. Inside, the cabin smelled of stale coffee and the damp wool of my winter coat, a stark contrast to the crystal chandeliers and pressed linens we had just left behind. Clara sat in the passenger seat, her beige cardigan buttoned all the way to her throat. In the dim light of the dashboard instruments, her white hair looked like spun silver. She rested her hands on her handbag, her knuckles pale.
"I can walk to the corner," Clara said softly, her voice barely carrying over the hum of the heater. "You've already risked enough for one evening."
"You're not walking anywhere in the dark, and certainly not in those shoes," I said, putting the car into drive. The tires crunched over wet gravel as I eased out onto the county road. "Besides, my shift ended the second I threw my apron on the manager's desk."
The city lights faded behind us, replaced by the dark, tree-lined avenues of the older northern suburbs. Brick colonials and sprawling ranches sat back behind manicured lawns, most of them dark against the overcast sky. For a few miles, the only sound was the rhythmic slap of the windshield wipers clearing away a light, freezing mist.
Clara stared out the side window, her breath fogging the corner of the glass. "Take the next left," she murmured. "Past the brick church with the copper steeple."
I slowed down, signaling for the turn. As I checked my rearview mirror, I noticed a dark shape hugging our bumper. A late-model black sedan, its headlights dimmed, had turned out of the restaurant's exit lane just behind us. It kept a precise, unyielding distance—two car lengths back, matching every shift in my speed.
"Is something wrong?" Clara asked, noticing my eyes flicking back to the mirror.
"Just watching traffic," I lied, keeping my voice steady. "You mentioned the church. Is that near your street?"
"No," Clara said, her brow furrowing as she looked out at the passing storefronts. "No, that's Elm Street. We haven't lived near Elm in thirty years. My husband planted the maples there when our son was small." She paused, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. Then, her shoulders straightened slightly, and the confusion cleared from her voice with startling precision. "Forgive me. Turn right at the traffic light. Oakridge Terrace. Number forty-two. The driveway has two stone pillars."
"Got it," I said, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter.
In the rear-view mirror, the black sedan made the same right turn, sliding into the lane behind us without signaling. I took a breath, letting the cold air from the vents hit my face. Julian Vance was patient, but he wasn't willing to lose track of his mother tonight.
"Julian handles the estate now," Clara said suddenly, as if answering a question I hadn't asked aloud. Her voice was quiet, resigned. "Ever since the doctors at the clinic used that long, heavy word last autumn. He said I couldn't be trusted to look after the accounts, or the house, or myself."
"That doesn't give him the right to treat you like a prisoner," I said, keeping my eyes fixed on the winding asphalt ahead.
"He thinks he's protecting the family name," Clara whispered, staring down at her pearl necklace. "Or perhaps just protecting what's left of the inheritance. But a woman forgets things, Maya. She doesn't forget how it feels to be locked out of her own life."
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Ahead of us, through the mist, two stone pillars rose from the curb, marking the entrance to a dark, sweeping driveway. I slowed the sedan and flicked my indicator. As we turned smoothly between the stone markers, I glanced back one last time. The black sedan had stopped at the mouth of the driveway, its engine idling in the dark, watching us settle into the shadows of the estate.
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