Chapter 4: North to the Blue Ridge
The beat-up 2012 Subaru Forester rattled over the asphalt seam of Interstate 81, heading north toward the jagged, slate-blue silhouette of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
The car was packed with everything they owned in the world: three duffel bags, a box of Clara’s childhood paperbacks, her late grandfather’s cedar chest, and an unfinished pine crib kit tied securely to the roof rack.
Clara sat in the passenger seat, wrapped in an oversized wool cardigan. Her eyes were fixed on the side mirror, watching the flat, wealthy pastures of Henrico County shrink into the distance. She flinched every time an eighteen-wheeler passed them, her hands continuously smoothing the fabric over her stomach in small, nervous circles.
"She will find us," Clara whispered, her voice barely audible over the drone of the four-cylinder engine.
"She won't," Logan answered, keeping one hand steady on the steering wheel while extending his right hand across the center console. "Eleanor operates on social leverage. She has power where people care about her family name. Out here, she’s just an old woman with a bitter tongue."
"Where are we staying tonight?"
"Marcus Davis’s place," Logan said. "You remember Marcus?"
Clara nodded faintly. "Your sergeant? The one who stayed with you at the hospital in Germany?"
"That’s him. He retired three years ago. Bought eighty acres of timber outside Luray. He and his wife, Sarah, run a small sawmill and rent a couple of guest cabins to hunters during the season. I called him from the gas station while you were asleep."
"What did you tell him?"
Logan’s jaw flexed. "I told him my family was under fire and needed an extraction. That’s all a man like Marcus needs to hear."
The highway began to climb into the foothills. The sterile, manicured suburbs gave way to stands of yellowing poplars, red maples, and ancient white pines clinging to granite ridges. The air coming through the cracked window turned crisp and dry, smelling of damp cedar needles, woodsmoke, and wet slate.
Clara leaned her head against the glass. For the first time in ten months, her shoulders sank an inch away from her ears.
"The baby kicked again," she murmured. "Right under my ribs."
May you like
Logan looked over at her, his weathered face softening into an authentic, tired smile. He brought her fingers to his lips, kissing the healing skin of her knuckles.
"He knows," Logan said. "He knows the wire is behind us."
