Chapter 3 - The Ghost of Manhattan
Five years passed.
In a sunlit park in Boston—far enough from New York to feel safe, yet close enough to feel the phantom hum of the coast—Mara built a quiet life. She ran a small, independent restoration studio for antique books. Her hands, once trained in fine art curation, now carefully mended torn leather bindings and yellowed parchment.
Leo and Clara were five, a whirlwind of boundless energy and sharp intellects. Leo had his father’s habit of tilting his head when he was thinking deeply; Clara had his fierce, unyielding stubbornness.
Mara watched them chase pigeons across the grass, a cup of coffee growing cold in her hand. She thought she was safe. She thought the past was buried beneath years of anonymity and ordinary routines.
She was wrong.
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A black town car—impossibly sleek, out of place among the family sedans and minivans—idled by the curb. The tinted window rolled down an inch.
Mara froze. Her breath caught in her throat. Even through the distorted glass, she recognized the silhouette, the posture, the absolute stillness of a predator waiting in the dark.
