Chapter 5 - THE GHOST OF HAWTHORNE RIDGETwo weeks passed, and the atmosphere in the Mercer estate had shifted from a mausoleum to something resembling a chaotic home.
Harrison Vance had not returned in person, though his office had sent three more couriers with urgent red-flag envelopes, all of which Nathan had promptly ignored. Instead, Nathan found himself spending an ungodly amount of time in the kitchen, ostensibly to check on meal schedules, but secretly drawn by the warmth, the noise, and Evie’s unyielding refusal to treat him like a financial deity.
It was a Tuesday evening when the past truly came knocking.
A heavy rainstorm was lashing the Blue Ridge mountains, turning the winding roads of Hawthorne Ridge into slick ribbons of mud and poor visibility. Nathan sat in his study with a glass of bourbon, watching the lightning flash against the windowpanes.
A sharp knock sounded at the heavy front oak doors—not the polite tap of a servant or the urgent slap of a courier, but a heavy, desperate pounding.
Nathan frowned, setting his glass down. Ruth was long gone to Knoxville, and Evie was upstairs organizing the pantry.
He walked down the grand staircase and pulled the heavy door open.
Standing on the porch, drenched to the bone and shivering violently, was a young woman in a sodden trench coat. Her dark hair clung to her face, and her eyes were wide with a frantic, wild terror.
Nathan stared at her, feeling the breath catch in his throat. For a horrifying second, through the veil of rain and dim porch light, he thought he was looking at Claire.
"Please," the young woman gasped, her voice trembling. "My car... it skidded off the ridge. Just like... just like the reports. Please, I need help."
Nathan grabbed her arm, pulling her out of the storm and into the brightly lit foyer. "Who are you?" he demanded, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. "What were you doing on Hawthorne Ridge?"
Before the shivering girl could answer, footsteps hurried down the stairs. Evie appeared on the landing, wiping her hands on a dish towel, taking in the scene below.
Evie’s eyes locked onto the soaking wet stranger. Then, slowly, she looked at Nathan, whose face had gone completely pale, drained of every drop of color.
"Mr. Mercer," the soaking wet girl whispered, clutching her chest as water pooled on the imported marble floor. "My name is Maya. I'm... I'm a journalist. And I found something belonging to your late wife."
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Nathan staggered back a step, the room spinning around him. "That's impossible," he choked out. "Claire died seven years ago."
"Not according to the VIN number on the car at the bottom of the ravine," Maya said, her teeth chattering as she pulled a rusted, mud-caked metal box from beneath her trench coat. "And not according to the new evidence I dug up about what happened on the night she disappeared."
