Chapter 6: The Inland Orchard
The town car's engine died with a soft shudder, the headlights washing over a rusted metal gate hanging crookedly from a single hinge. Beyond it, the apple orchard stretched into the darkness like an army of hunchbacked skeletons, their twisted branches clawing at a gray, starless sky. We had driven two counties inland, leaving the asphalt for crushed gravel, and then for packed mud that rattled the sedan's suspension.
The boss killed the dashboard lights. In the sudden gloom, the green digital clock on the console glowed at 3:42 AM. In the back seat, the little blonde girl in the white dress was fast asleep, her head pillowed against my black-and-white uniform sleeve, her small breaths coming soft and even.
The boss turned in his leather seat, resting his right hand on the steering wheel. His dark hair was slightly disordered, a few strands falling across his forehead where the high-end interior lighting of the mansion foyer felt weeks away. His black tailored shirt was buttoned to the throat, but the tension in his shoulders hadn't eased since we left the coast.
"Stay in the car," he said, his voice a low, flat rasp that brooked no argument. "Lock the doors. If I'm not back by dawn, take the vehicle down to the highway. There's a diner. Call the number on this card."
He reached into his breast pocket, but I didn't reach for the card. I looked past him through the frosted windshield, where a faint yellow square of light bled through the orchard rows about a hundred yards away. A small caretaker's cottage, tucked low against the rise of a limestone hill.
"She's awake enough to know I left her once tonight," I said, my voice barely louder than the hum of the cooling engine. "She won't stay quiet if I vanish into the dark. I'm coming with you."
He started to object, his jaw tightening, the muscle jumping beneath his skin. But he caught himself, looking back at the sleeping child in the white dress. He knew as well as I did that a sudden movement or a crying child could ruin whatever was waiting at the end of that lane. Without a word, he pushed his door open. The metal clicked softly, and the cold October air rushed into the cabin, smelling of wet earth, rotting fruit, and woodsmoke.
I eased the child off my shoulder, wrapping the hem of my apron around her to keep the damp night chill off her arms, and slipped out the other side.
We approached the cottage on foot, keeping to the muddy rows between the neglected apple trees. The ground was hard with the first real frost of the season, and every step on the fallen, rotting fruit produced a muffled, wet crunch under our soles. The boss walked slightly ahead, his long stride measured, his hand resting casually inside his jacket where the heavy weight of a concealed piece pulled the fabric taut.
As we drew closer, the sharp scent of burning oak grew stronger, masking the decay of the orchard. The cottage was small, built of fieldstone and weathered timber with a sagging slate roof. A single window on the side was uncurtained, casting a pale, trapezoid of yellow light across the frozen weeds.
We reached the side wall and pressed our backs against the rough stone. The glass of the window was old and wavy, distorting the shapes inside, but the voices carried clearly through the thin wooden frame.
"...not supposed to be here," a raspy, gravelly voice said. It was Bruno. The sound of it hit me like a physical blow, recalling every quiet afternoon he had spent around the estate fixing gates and pruning hedges, moving with a deceptive, slow grace. "You bring him down on us, everything falls apart. She’s safe where she is."
A second voice answered. It was sharper, pitched lower, carrying an edge of cold corporate arrogance that didn't belong to a hired hand or an old orchard keeper. The words were muffled by the thickness of the glass, but the cadence was crisp, educated, and entirely unfamiliar.
May you like
"He was already asking questions at the foundation board," the second voice replied, smooth as polished glass. "The child talked. You should have watched her closer. If he traces this far, we burn the books, and we start over in the southern territories. But you're worried about sentiment."
The boss stiffened beside me. His head snapped toward the window, his eyes narrowing until they were mere slits in the dim yellow light. He knew Bruno's voice, but that second voice hung in the cold air like a foreign signature on a bad contract. He reached down, his fingers curling around the grip of his weapon, the safety clicking off with a tiny, metallic snip that sounded like a gunshot in the quiet orchard.
