Chapter 3 - Sirens in the Fog
The cold autumn wind whipped Eleanor’s dark blue dress around her ankles as she pulled Clara down the narrow, cobblestone alleyway behind the exhibition hall. The wailing police sirens grew louder, bouncing off the towering brick facades and trapping them in a maze of shadows and exhaust fumes. Clara struggled to keep pace, her pale blue floral dress snagging on a rusted iron fence, but Eleanor refused to slow down, her grip on the green photograph album tightening until her knuckles turned ghostly white.
“Mom, you’re hurting my arm,” Clara whimpered, her breath pluming in the freezing air like tiny ghosts escaping her lips.
Eleanor didn’t answer. She ducked behind a row of large commercial dumpsters, pulling Clara into the deep shadow of a brick loading dock. Her chest heaved with ragged breaths, and her mascara had run down her cheeks in dark, jagged streaks. She pulled a burner phone from the hidden pocket of her dress, her thumb shaking violently as she punched in a three-digit sequence that had been burned into her memory for over a decade.
“They know, Julian,” Eleanor whispered frantically into the tiny receiver the moment the line connected. “The painting. She painted the kitchen. She put the locket inside the frame.”
A heavy, static-filled sigh echoed from the speaker, followed by a voice that sounded like grinding stones. “I told you that woman couldn't be trusted to stay buried in Paris, Eleanor. Did the girl open the album?”
“She has the polaroid out,” Eleanor choked out, pressing her back against the damp brick wall. “She’s asking about the birthday.”
“Then you can’t come home,” Julian said coldly. “Pack a bag. I’m sending the car to the south pier.”
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Before Eleanor could reply, the beam of a high-powered flashlight cut through the fog at the end of the alleyway, illuminating their hiding spot with blinding clarity.
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