Chapter 7 - The Safe House
Rain lashed against the cracked windshield of Clara’s battered hatchback as she drove through the industrial outskirts of the city. Christian sat in the passenger seat, head tilted against the glass, eyes half-closed as he breathed through the waves of nausea.
""Where are we going?"" he asked quietly, the glow of the dashboard casting sharp shadows across his bruised face.
""My sister’s cottage near the salt marshes,"" Clara replied, checking her rearview mirror for headlights. ""Nobody knows about it. Julian’s private investigators won't think to look there.""
""You're risking everything for this, Clara. Your job, your safety. Why?""
Clara kept her hands steady at ten and two on the steering wheel. ""Because my mother worked for your father for twenty years. Before he died, he told me that you were the only Whitfield who possessed a conscience. When I held that towel to your head on the floor... I saw the truth in your eyes. You didn't fall.""
Christian said nothing, but he placed his hand over hers on the gearshift. His palm was warm, calloused, grounding her rising panic.
May you like
An hour later, they arrived at the secluded wooden cottage tucked beneath weeping willow trees. Clara helped Christian inside, easing him onto an old sofa covered in faded quilts. As she turned to lock the deadbolt, the low rumble of an engine broke through the drumming rain outside.
A pair of headlights cut through the darkness of the narrow dirt lane, slowing down outside the cottage gate.
