Chapter 10
The siren wailed, cutting through the heavy sheets of rain as Detective Thomas’s unmarked cruiser tore down Route 9, its blue and red lights painting the slick asphalt in flashing strokes. Martha sat in the passenger seat, gripping the door handle so hard her knuckles were white. Her eyes scanned the dark tree line and the occasional passing vehicle, searching for the sleek black sedan that had slipped out of the hospital courtyard.
“She’s heading toward the old coastal estate,” Thomas said, his hands locked tightly on the steering wheel as he navigated a sharp curve. “The Blackwood family has a private dock and a boathouse about five miles past the manor ruins. It’s isolated, and there’s an unregistered yacht docked there that hasn’t been inspected by maritime authorities in years.”
“She’s fleeing the country,” Martha stated, her voice deadpan and steady. “She knows the forensic audit is closing in on her accounts, and the deposition from Arthur is going to be unsealed in the morning. If she reaches international waters, she’s untouchable.”
“Not if we get there first,” Thomas replied, slamming his foot down harder on the accelerator. The engine roared in response, the tires hydroplaning slightly before catching traction on the wet pavement.
Ten minutes later, the cruiser veered off the main highway onto a narrow, unpaved gravel road overhung by ancient, weeping willow trees. The branches lashed against the windshield like grasping fingers. Thomas switched off the cruiser’s headlights, plunging the car into darkness as they crept forward, guided only by the dim glow of the dashboard and the flashes of distant lightning.
Up ahead, through the curtain of rain, the skeletal silhouette of the old boathouse emerged against the churning dark waters of the bay. Tied to the wooden pier sat a gleaming white seventy-foot motor yacht, its diesel engines idling with a low, heavy thrum that vibrated through the damp air.
Parked right beside the ramp was the black luxury sedan, its passenger door standing wide open.
Thomas pulled the cruiser off the road into a thicket of brush, cutting the engine completely. The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the steady patter of rain and the rhythmic crashing of waves against the wooden pilings.
“Stay in the car, Martha,” Thomas whispered, drawing his service weapon and checking the magazine slide with a quiet click.
“I’m not staying anywhere,” Martha replied, unbuckling her seatbelt with swift, practiced efficiency. She reached into the glove compartment, pulling out a heavy steel tire iron. “She burned my home. She locked a child in a room to die. You need backup, Detective.”
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Thomas looked at her, saw the absolute, unyielding resolve in her dark eyes, and gave a slow, grim nod. “All right. But stay behind me. This isn’t a boardroom dispute anymore.”
***
