Chapter 2 - The House by the Sea
The drive from Boston to Rockport took an hour and forty minutes through winding coastal roads flanked by jagged granite cliffs and towering pine trees whipped by the North Atlantic wind.
The coastal estate—a sprawling, shingle-style mansion perched dramatically over a rocky promontory known locally as Widow’s Point—looked desolate from a distance. Its once-pristine white clapboards were weathered by salt spray, and the overgrown rosebushes clawed aggressively against the wraparound porch.
Daniel killed the engine of the black sedan fifty yards down the private gravel drive, keeping the vehicle concealed behind a thick grove of wind-bent cedars.
Claire unbuckled her seatbelt, reached into her leather handbag, and pulled out a small, heavy brass key—the old master key to the Rockport estate that her father had given her on her wedding day, which Vincent had stupidly forgotten to demand during the divorce proceedings.
"Stay within radio range," Claire instructed Daniel, checking the secure earpiece clipped to her collar. "If I don’t check in every thirty minutes, you bring the second car up."
"Claire, are you sure you want to go in alone?" Daniel asked, his hand instinctively resting near his jacket holster. "We could call the federal receiver's office first—"
"No," Claire interrupted, opening the car door. "If federal authorities are involved in unfreezing this property, calling them right now is like ringing a bell for the wolves. I need to see what’s inside with my own eyes."
The wind screamed off the ocean, tearing at Claire’s hair as she walked up the crumbling stone steps of the porch. The salt air stung her cheeks, but she didn't hesitate. She inserted the brass key into the heavy oak front door.
Click.
The lock gave way with a heavy, protesting groan.
Claire pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The interior of the mansion smelled of damp timber, dust, and old sea salt. The furniture was shrouded in white canvas dust sheets, casting ghostly, distorted shapes in the dim light filtering through the salt-crusted windows.
She walked through the grand foyer, her heels clicking softly against the hardwood floor. Everything looked undisturbed, preserved in amber from the day she had last visited three years before her divorce.
Until she reached the grand library at the back of the house, overlooking the crashing waves below.
The door to the library was slightly ajar.
A thin sliver of artificial light spilled out onto the dark hallway floor.
Claire froze. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but her mind remained ice-cold. She reached into her coat pocket, her fingers closing around the cold metal of a concealed pepper-spray canister.
Silently, she pushed the library door open wider.
The room was no longer a dusty time capsule.
A high-end laptop sat plugged into a portable satellite uplink terminal on the mahogany reading table. Stacks of printed financial ledgers—bearing the official letterhead of Bennett-Moretti Global Logistics—were spread out across the Persian rug.
And standing by the floor-to-ceiling bay window, silhouetted against the gray ocean glare, was a woman.
She wore a dark trench coat, her platinum-blonde hair cut into a sharp, asymmetrical bob that looked entirely different from her old corporate style, but the posture—rigid, calculating, and unapologetically arrogant—was unmistakable.
Elena Ward slowly turned around.
May you like
She wasn't startled. In fact, a slow, predatory smile spread across her lips as she looked at Claire standing in the doorway.
"Well, well," Elena said, her voice smooth and dripping with artificial sweetness. "I wondered how long it would take the great Claire Bennett to notice her little maritime kingdom was springing leaks."
