Chapter 5 - The Mainland Dock
The skiff banged against the slick wooden pilings of the mainland dock with a jarring thud that rattled my teeth. Henderson cut the sputtering outboard motor, leaving us in a heavy, muffled silence broken only by the rhythmic lapping of dark water against treated timber. The fog here was thinner than out on the channel, clinging in damp, gray wisps to the pilings and the rusted iron chains of the commercial lobster boats tied up along the slip. I vaulted out of the boat before it fully settled, my leather dress shoes sinking into the damp salt-crusted planks. I tossed Henderson a folded bill for the trouble, not waiting for thanks, and hurried up the ramp toward the sleepy harbor town waking up behind the seawall.
The wind carried the sharp scents of diesel, drying nets, and frying bacon from a small diner near the end of the pier. I shoved my hands deep into my coat pockets, my knuckles sore and stiff from the damp chill, and walked past a row of shuttered bait shops. A weathered wooden sign swung gently overhead, creaking on iron hinges. Clara had been here; I could feel it in the sparse air. She wasn't one to vanish without a logistical map, no matter how hard she tried to erase her tracks. She planned every departure with the precision of someone who knew the walls were closing in, yet she had slipped up enough to leave her rings on the dresser back at the mansion. That omission still burned in my mind like a brand.
I pushed open the scarred wooden door of the diner. A small brass bell chimed overhead, cutting through the low murmur of morning talk and the clatter of ceramic coffee mugs. The place was narrow, lined with red vinyl booths on one side and a scuffed laminate counter on the other. A pair of local fishermen in heavy canvas jackets sat near the back, staring into their black coffee. Behind the counter, a tired woman in a stained apron wiped down the formica with a gray rag. She didn't look up immediately, letting me stand in the doorway while the damp sea breeze swirled around my ankles. I walked straight to the counter, pulling off my leather gloves and laying them on the sticky surface.
"Coffee. Black," I said, my voice cutting through the hum of the small room.
The woman paused, her eyes flicking up to take in my disheveled appearance, the stubble darkening my jaw, and the unbuttoned collar of my shirt with the twisted black bow tie still dangling limently around my neck like a forgotten noose. She saw a man who had driven all night, crossed an open channel in a leaky skiff, and was running on pure, stubborn adrenaline. She turned without a word, grabbed a thick ceramic mug, and pumped it full of dark, steaming brew from the spigot. She slid it across the counter toward me, her gaze lingering on my hands.
"You look like you dragged yourself out of a ditch, mister," she said quietly, her voice raspy from decades of salt air. "Looking for someone?"
I wrapped my hands around the hot mug, letting the heat sink into my numb fingers. "A woman. Dark hair, wearing a dark wool coat. Might have been carrying a leather satchel."
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The waitress narrowed her eyes slightly, chewing on the inside of her cheek before she reached beneath the counter. She pulled out a small, worn black notebook with a frayed elastic band and tossed it onto the counter beside my coffee. It landed with a soft thump. My heart gave a sharp, hard kick against my ribs. It was Clara’s journal—the one she used to sketch floor plans and draft landscape designs for the foundation.
"Left it in the corner booth about an hour before the dawn ferry came in," the woman said, leaning her forearms on the counter. "Seemed in a fierce hurry. Wrote down a bunch of mileage markers and county road numbers on the flyleaf before she headed out toward the mountain foothills. If you're chasing her, mister, you better step on the gas. She looked like a woman who didn't want to be found."
