Chapter 27 - Shadows on the Lake
The illusion of absolute safety lasted exactly two weeks.
It was a crisp Tuesday morning when the illusion cracked. I was down in the village picking up provisions—groceries, winter gear, and a fresh spool of heavy-duty thread for Lily—when I noticed a black sedan idling near the town’s only post office. It wasn't a local vehicle; it had clean, out-of-state plates from Indiana, tinted windows, and the unmistakable stance of a professional tail.
I didn't panic. I didn't reach for a gun. I simply bought my supplies, loaded them into the back of the Ford Explorer, and took the long, winding logging roads back toward the cabin, deliberately making three unnecessary turns to confirm I was being followed.
The black sedan stayed half a mile back, maintaining a disciplined, professional distance.
When I pulled up to the cabin, Sarah was sitting on the front steps reading a paperback while Lily was sketching something in a spiral notebook nearby. I stepped out of the Explorer, keeping my movements calm, and walked over to them.
"Pack a bag," I said quietly, keeping my voice low so only they could hear.
Sarah looked up instantly, her eyes narrowing as she read the tension in my posture. "How close?"
"Half a mile down the timber road," I said. "They're not feds. Federal agents don't drive unmarked sedans with tinted glass out on logging trails. These are remnants. People who lost everything when the ledger went public and want to know where the backup keys are hiding."
Lily didn't panic. She closed her notebook, slipped her pencils into her canvas bag, and picked up the yellow tin without a single word of complaint. Seven years of running had taught her how to move faster than most adults.
May you like
"Where are we going?" Sarah asked, standing up and slinging a duffel over her shoulder.
"Further north," I said, unlocking the passenger door. "Across the border into the Upper Peninsula. Into the timber country where roads don't exist on maps."
