Chapter 2 - The Fork in the County Road
The black sedan ahead maintained a steady, monotonous speed, hugging the center line of Route 9 as the suburban sprawl dissolved into dense pine forests and rolling dairy farms. My knuckles tightened against the steering wheel of my SUV. The cream blazer felt too warm now, the fabric restrictive against my shoulders as the midday sun climbed higher through the windshield.
Ten miles past the town line, the sedan flicked its indicator and turned sharply down an unpaved logging road marked by a faded wooden sign for the Red Creek timber tract. I slowed my approach, letting a dust cloud settle before nosing my vehicle into the tree line. The branches scraped low against the roof, leaving faint grey streaks across the dark paint.
I killed the engine and sat in the sudden silence, broken only by the ticking of the cooling metal hood. Through the binoculars on the passenger seat, I scanned the overgrown clearing ahead. The sedan was empty, parked beside a weathered timber cabin with boarded windows. No sign of my daughter or the driver.
A rusted pickup truck idled near the cabin's side porch, a local man in a flannel shirt loading empty fuel cans into the bed. I stepped out of the SUV, adjusting my white shirt cuffs, and walked down the gravel track with deliberate, unhurried steps.
"Morning," I said, keeping my tone casual as I approached the truck.
The man paused, wiping grease off his thumb with a rag. He looked past my cream blazer and the polished loafers that were already collecting dust, weighing me with the slow, skeptical gaze typical of rural New Englanders.
"Road ends half a mile up," the man said, his voice gravelly. "Private property past the bridge."
"I'm looking for a grey sedan that just came down this way," I said, offering a neutral smile that didn't reach my eyes. "Family matter."
"Saw 'em," he nodded toward a branching dirt track heading deeper into the ridge. "The old woman’s estate keeper took a kid up to the upper lodge about ten minutes back. They use the old carriage road when they don't want the state police nosing around."
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I pressed a twenty-dollar bill into his palm, closing his fingers over it without a word. He pocketed it with a short nod, returning to his task. I walked back to my SUV, started the ignition, and pointed the hood toward the carriage road, my jaw set tight against the rising tide of adrenaline.
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