Chapter 7 - The Parole Address
We arrived in St. Albans at eight o'clock in the evening.
The northern border town was buried under a thick, howling blanket of white. The wind blew down from Lake Champlain, driving frozen sleet against the brick storefronts of the quiet downtown district.
Marcus's registered parole address was a dilapidated, two-story wooden boarding house located on a dark side street near the railyards.
Brendan parked the SUV fifty yards down the street, keeping the engine idling, the headlights switched off.
"I'm coming with you, sir," Brendan said, reaching under his coat to check his sidearm. "Your brother spent eight years in a maximum-security facility with violent offenders. He isn't the boy you remember."
"Wait in the car," I said, opening the door.
"Mr. Vance—"
"Wait in the car, Brendan," I repeated, my tone leaving no room for argument. "This is a family matter."
I stepped out into the freezing wind, pulling my coat collar up around my throat, my leather boots crunching heavily into the fresh snow.
I walked up the creaking, ice-slicked wooden steps of the boarding house and pushed open the front door.
The interior smelled of damp wool, cheap tobacco, and boiled cabbage. A single flickering light bulb hung from a frayed wire in the hallway, illuminating peeling yellow wallpaper and a narrow, carpeted staircase leading to the upper floor.
I climbed the stairs, my heart pounding a heavy, hollow rhythm in my chest.
Room 2B.
I stood before the faded green door, took a deep breath, and raised my hand to knock.
Before my knuckles touched the wood, I noticed the lock.
The brass deadbolt was shattered. The wooden frame around the strike plate was splintered inward, as if the door had been forced open by a heavy boot.
I pushed the door open with the tip of my boot.
The room was small, freezing cold, and illuminated only by the orange glow of a streetlamp shining through a frost-covered window.
The space had been thoroughly, violently ransacked.
Drawers had been pulled from the single dresser and dumped onto the floor. The mattress had been slashed open with a knife, its foam padding spilling out like white guts. Books, old clothes, and plastic eating utensils were scattered across the floorboards.
In the center of the room, sitting on a plain wooden chair, was a small, familiar object.
It was a stoneware pot containing a lavender plant.
Its soil was fresh, dark, and damp. Someone had watered it very recently.
I knelt beside the chair, my hand trembling as I touched the thin purple stems of the plant.
Tessa had been here.
I stood up quickly, turning toward the window, my eyes scanning the dark room. On the small wooden table beside the slashed mattress lay a crumpled piece of paper covered in rough, hurried handwriting.
I picked it up and held it to the light of the window.
Julian, If you are smart enough to follow her here, you are already too late. She thinks she can buy your redemption with my life. Come to the old granite quarry in Highgate. Come alone, or the girl dies the same way Arthur did. —M.
I held the note in my hand, the rough paper shaking in my grip as the freezing Vermont wind howled through the cracks in the windowpane.
May you like
Marcus didn't just want money.
He wanted revenge against the brother who had abandoned him to twelve years of hell—and he was using Arthur Callaway's daughter as the bait.
