Chapter 7
The northern industrial sector of town looked like a ghost town swallowed by the elements. Skeletal steel frames of collapsed roofs jutted into the gray sky, and rusted corrugated iron walls rattled violently in the relentless wind. Clara navigated her sedan slowly through the flooded access roads, the headlights cutting through the sheets of rain to illuminate deep potholes filled with dark water.
In the passenger footwell, the Golden Retriever shifted restlessly, its low growl vibrating through the floorboards. Clara glanced down at the animal, noting how its ears were pinned back, alert and tense. They were getting close.
Ahead of them, looming out of the gloom like a rusted fortress, stood the old Vanguard Textile Mill. It had been shuttered for over two decades, its windows smashed out and its perimeter fence sagging under the weight of overgrown vines. But parked near the loading dock at the rear of the main building was a familiar vehicle: a rusted red pickup truck with its tailgate down. Arthur Vance’s truck.
Clara cut her headlights and coasted the sedan to a stop behind a stack of rotting wooden pallets near the perimeter fence. She killed the engine, plunging the interior into silence save for the drumming of rain on the roof.
"Stay here, boy," Clara whispered, opening her door just an inch to let in the cool, damp air without giving the dog room to bolt. The retriever let out a soft whine of protest, scratching lightly at the seat back, but it obeyed, pressing its body low against the floor.
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Clara stepped out into the downpour, the icy water instantly soaking through her jacket. She pulled the hood tight over her head and moved with cautious, deliberate steps toward the loading dock. The air smelled of wet concrete, rust, and the distinct, sharp tang of ozone—like a high-voltage electrical transformer that had recently blown.
As she reached the corner of the loading dock, she heard raised voices echoing from inside the cavernous interior of the mill. One voice was old, cracked with exhaustion and defiance—Arthur Vance. The other voice was cold, smooth, and chillingly familiar: the man from the phone call.
