Chapter 4 - The Cabin on Route 9
The auto body shop was a rusted shell of corrugated iron, surrounded by cracked asphalt and overgrown weeds. Tucked behind it, almost hidden by a wall of pine trees, stood a tiny wooden cabin with a sagging roof and a single yellow light burning in the small front window.
I parked the SUV a hundred yards away, walking through the wet grass so the engine sound wouldn't startle her.
As I approached the cabin, I could hear the faint, soft sound of a lullaby being sung over the patter of the rain.
“Hush now, my little ones, don’t say a word... Papa’s gonna buy you a mockingbird...”
Maren’s voice was raspy, thin, and tired, but it held the same heartbreaking sweetness I had fallen in love with ten years ago.
I stood on the small wooden porch. The boards creaked beneath my weight. The singing stopped instantly.
“Who’s there?” Maren’s voice snapped from inside, laced with sharp, instinctual fear.
I heard the sound of a heavy wooden chair being dragged across the floor to barricade the door.
“Maren,” I said softly, my voice trembling. “It’s me. It’s Rowan.”
Silence stretched across the porch. A long, suffocating silence.
“Go away, Rowan,” she said, her voice dropping into a flat, icy tone through the thin wood. “Your fiancée gave me twenty dollars today. That should buy us enough milk for three days. You don’t need to come back for more entertainment.”
“Maren... please,” I begged, pressing my forehead against the damp door. “I know about the safe. I know about Arthur Vance. I know everything.”
The lock clicked. Slowly, painfully, the wooden door swung inward.
Maren stood in the doorway. She was wearing a faded grey sweater three sizes too big for her, held together at the waist with a safety pin. Her dark hair was pulled back into a messy knot, and her cheekbones were sharp against her pale skin.
Behind her, on a small mattress laid directly on the wooden floor, two tiny infants were asleep beneath a patched quilt.
She didn't look angry. She just looked hollowed out, as if she had cried every tear her body could produce months ago.
“You know?” she asked softly. “What do you know, Rowan? That I didn't sleep with your business partner? That I didn't steal three hundred thousand dollars from your account? Or do you just know that I’m poor enough now that it makes you feel guilty?”
I reached into my pocket, pulled out the plastic rattle, and held it out to her.
“I found this on the road,” I whispered.
Maren looked down at the rattle. A faint, trembling sigh escaped her lips, but she didn't take it.
“I know about the third baby, Maren,” I said, tears finally breaking free and tracking down my face. “I know about our son.”
Maren froze. Her entire body went rigid. The color drained from her face so fast I thought she was going to faint. She leaned heavily against the doorframe, her hand clutching her chest.
“What... what did you say?” she breathed.
May you like
“You didn't have a stillbirth,” I said, stepping into the cabin and shutting the door behind me. “Julian Vance signed a fake death certificate. Tessa and her father took our son from the delivery room. He’s alive, Maren. He’s in Switzerland, and they are bringing him back next week.”
Maren dropped to her knees right there on the wooden floorboards, a sound tearing from her throat that broke every piece of my heart that wasn't already shattered.
