Chapter 7: The Crossing and the Discovery
The icy creek water bit into Clara’s ankles as she stepped off the muddy bank, the current immediately tugging at her heavy boots. She kept one hand locked tightly around Leo’s small, cold palm, while David forged ahead, using a sturdy fallen oak branch as a walking staff to test the depth of the channel. The water rose to their waists, swirling darkly against Clara’s brown jumpsuit and soaking the canvas backpack slung over her shoulder. Leo let out a startled squeak as a sudden eddy caused him to slip, but David caught him by the collar of his striped shirt before the boy could go under. Steady, Leo. I've got you. Keep your eyes on the far bank, don't look down at the water, David instructed softly, his voice a steady anchor against the rushing sound of the stream. A few agonizing moments later, their boots crunched onto the gravelly shore of the opposite bank. They collapsed against the trunk of a massive water oak, coughing and shivering in the damp shade of the timber tract. Clara squeezed the excess water from the hem of her jumpsuit, her teeth chattering slightly as the autumn breeze hit her wet skin. We need to keep moving, she urged, looking back across the dark stream toward their house, though nothing could be seen through the thick wall of foliage. They'll figure out which way we went once they track our footprints through the mud. David didn't move immediately. He was staring down at the canvas backpack Clara had carried through the creek. The heavy zipper had slipped open an inch during the scramble through the water, revealing the edge of the leather pouch David thought he had left behind in the living room. Clara followed his gaze, her eyebrows pulling together in confusion. You brought it? You grabbed the ledger when we ran? David slowly reached out, pulling the wet leather pouch entirely free from the pack. I didn't consciously grab it, Clara. It must have fallen into your bag when we were scrambling out the bedroom window, he murmured, his fingers tracing the damp, cracked leather. It’s like it refuses to stay buried. Clara reached out, placing a cold hand over his. Then maybe it’s a sign, David. Maybe running isn't the answer anymore. Maybe we need to open those pages and see who we're really running from, and why they want us dead instead of just quiet.
