Chapter 23 - The Road into the Pines
The pavement ended forty miles outside the city, giving way to a rutted, washboard dirt road that wound steeply through dense stands of Douglas fir and lodgepole pine. Snow clung to the shaded embankments, undisturbed except for the occasional set of deer tracks.
Blackwood Ridge was an isolated tract of land that had belonged to Luke’s grandfather before the Sterling name became synonymous with high-end suburban real estate developments. To Eleanor, the parcel was an embarrassment—too remote to develop, lacking municipal water lines, and devoid of the manicured prestige she craved. She had tried to sell it off multiple times after Thomas died, but Luke had stubbornly maintained the property taxes from his own personal account, refusing to let his mother liquidate his childhood memories.
Yet Luke hadn't set foot on the property in over seven years. Not since the day Sophie was born.
As the SUV climbed higher, the air grew noticeably thinner and colder. The trees leaned inward over the narrow logging road, their branches heavy with frost. We rounded a sharp, blind hairpin turn, and the cabin suddenly appeared through the gray mist.
It was built of dark timber and rough-hewn river stone, hunkered against the hillside like an old, sleeping beast. The roof was steep, covered in moss and pine needles, and the front porch sagged slightly beneath years of winter snow loads. But as we pulled closer, my breath hitched in my throat.
There were tire tracks in the frozen mud near the old woodshed. Fresh tire tracks.
Luke killed the engine. The silence that rushed in to fill the void was deafening—only the distant caw of a raven and the tick-tick-tick of the cooling manifold beneath our hood.
"Someone was here," I whispered, reaching instinctively for the door handle.
Luke reached across the console, his hand catching my wrist. "Wait. Look at the chimney."
A faint, ghostly wisp of pale blue smoke was curling from the stone chimney stack, dissolving into the gray sky.
"Someone *is* here," Luke corrected grimly.
He reached beneath his driver’s seat and pulled out an old steel tire iron, testing its balance in his grip. "Stay behind me, Maya. The second I tell you to run, you get back in the truck, lock the doors, and don't stop until you reach the highway patrol station."
"I’m not leaving you," I said firmly, my voice leaving no room for argument. "Whatever is in that cabin concerns Sophie. And if your family thinks they can intimidate us off our daughter’s rightful peace, they have another thing coming."
We stepped out of the vehicle together, our boots crunching softly on the frozen gravel. The cold air hit my face like an open hand, sharp and smelling of burning birch wood.
We ascended the sagging porch steps, our weight making the seasoned cedar groan. The heavy oak front door was shut, but as Luke approached, we both saw it: stuck into the center of the wooden panel with an antique iron nail was a small, torn envelope.
Written on the front in elegant, deliberate calligraphy was Luke’s full name: *Lucas Thomas Sterling.*
Luke pulled the envelope from the nail, his hands steady despite the biting wind. He pulled out a folded slip of heavy cream cardstock.
May you like
I read it over his shoulder:
*“I watched you close the buffet at Sophie’s party. I watched you walk away from Eleanor’s table. It was the first time in thirty-two years that a Sterling stood up to that woman for the sake of a child. Come inside, Lucas. Put the tire iron down. It’s time you met your sister.”*
