Chapter 8: The Road to Providence
The interstate highway stretched out before them like a gray ribbon cutting through rolling hills of golden farmland. Elena drove the sedan with steady, focused hands, while Claire sat in the passenger seat, occasionally checking the GPS coordinates on her phone. The silence between them was not heavy like it had been in the dining room, but rather contemplative, charged with the anticipation of what lay at the end of their journey.
“Do you think he’s trying to reach us?” Claire asked after two hours of steady driving, glancing sideways at her mother.
“I checked my phone at the last rest stop,” Elena said evenly, keeping her eyes on the road. Vance—or Robert, rather—had left two voicemails. I didn’t listen to them yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because anything he has to say right now is likely an excuse or an attempt to control the narrative,” Elena replied, her voice firm. “For thirty-five years, Robert managed every piece of information in our household. He decided what I knew, what you knew, and how we lived our lives. I’m done letting him curate my reality, Claire.”
Claire nodded in agreement, feeling a surge of respect for the woman beside her. For years, she had viewed her mother as gentle, perhaps even passive in the shadow of Robert’s dominant personality. But this crisis had stripped away the superficial layers, revealing a core of fierce resilience.
By late afternoon, the flat plains of the Midwest gave way to the dense forests and rocky coastlines of New England. The air grew cooler, carrying the sharp, salty tang of the Atlantic Ocean as they crossed the state line into Rhode Island.
Oakridge Manor loomed into view just as the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in strokes of bruised purple and fiery orange. The estate was set back from the main coastal road behind a wrought-iron gate that hung half-open between two ivy-covered stone pillars. A gravel driveway wound through manicured lawns and towering oak trees before terminating in a grand circular courtyard dominated by a dry stone fountain.
Elena parked the car near the heavy oak front door of the main house. A small brass plaque beside the entrance read: Oakridge Manor Historical Inn & Heritage Center.
“This is it,” Claire whispered, unbuckling her seatbelt.
May you like
They stepped out of the vehicle into the crisp evening air. The manor looked majestic yet melancholic, bearing the quiet dignity of a place that held more secrets than it cared to share. They walked up the stone steps together, the crunch of gravel underfoot sounding unnaturally loud in the twilight stillness.
Claire pushed open the heavy wooden door, the brass latch clicking shut behind them as they stepped across the threshold into the past.
