Chapter 6 - The Refuge on Windmill Road
Twelve minutes away, inside the warm, modest kitchen of the Windmill Road rental, the world smelled of fresh oatmeal and cinnamon.
The apartment was small, its walls painted a cheerful, unassuming yellow that contrasted sharply with the cavernous, oppressive stone of the South End townhouse. A second-hand crib, assembled by Solvig with the help of a retired carpenter neighbor, sat proudly in the corner of the small bedroom.
Ingrid sat at the laminate kitchen table, her laptop open, reviewing her digital bank statements. The $21,400 was dwindling—first and last month's rent, groceries, basic baby supplies, and a prepaid burner phone had cut it down to $17,200. But for the first time in her adult life, every single cent spent was accounted for by her and her alone.
Beex walked in from the small living room, holding a mug of hot cocoa. "Tante Solvig is bringing more diapers after work. She said Mr. Crane’s car was spotted near the Macdonald bridge this morning."
Ingrid did not look up from her screen, though her fingers paused over the trackpad. "He’s looking because he hates losing control, Beex. Not because he misses us."
"Do you think he knows about this place?"
"No," Ingrid said firmly, though a knot tightened in her stomach. "He thinks in terms of power and property. He assumes I’m hiding with Solvig or cowering in some shelter. It never crosses his mind that a woman with Crane money attached to her name would voluntarily choose a two-bedroom apartment next to a laundromat."
There was a sudden, sharp rap at the front door.
Both mother and daughter froze. The kitchen grew instantly, deafeningly quiet. The wind howled off the basin outside, rattling the double-paned glass. Another knock—heavier this time, deliberate and commanding.
May you like
Ingrid stood up slowly, her heavy frame protesting, and walked toward the small entryway. Peering through the peephole, her breath caught in her throat.
It wasn't Desmond. It was Constance, the family lawyer, holding a manila envelope and looking entirely out of place beneath the flickering fluorescent bulb of the apartment hallway.
