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The prop plane descended through a thick blanket of gray Atlantic fog, its engines droning a monotonous, vibrating lullaby that did nothing to soothe the violent churning in my stomach.

I gripped the armrests of my seat, my eyes fixed on the small circular window as the rugged, pine-covered coastline of Maine materialized through the mist. The jagged rocks jutting out of the churning white-capped waves looked like broken teeth waiting to devour anything that strayed too close to the shore.

It was late afternoon when we touched down at the Portland International Jetport. The air rushing into the terminal was damp, smelling of salt, decaying kelp, and damp earth—a sharp, nostalgic contrast to the dry suburban air of Illinois.

I rented a small, nondescript gray sedan from a kiosk near baggage claim, paying cash to avoid leaving a digital trail that Thomas or Karen could easily trace if they noticed I was missing. By the time I loaded my single duffel bag into the trunk, the sun was already dipping below the tree line, casting long, bruised shadows across the highway asphalt.

Osprey’s Cove was a two-hour drive north, winding along narrow coastal routes flanked by towering pines and desolate stretches of rocky beach.

As I drove, the dashboard heater hummed quietly, keeping the autumn chill at bay. I had left a brief, carefully worded note on the kitchen counter for Thomas: “Went away to clear my head. Don’t look for me. I need to finish an old chapter.” I knew he would panic, knew he would call the police, but by the time they tracked my credit card or my phone—which I had left powered off in the glove compartment—I would already be where I needed to be.

The road grew narrower, turning from asphalt to packed gravel as I crossed the municipal boundary into Osprey’s Cove.

It was a decaying postcard of a town. Weather-beaten clapboard houses with peeling white paint lined the main street, most of them dark and shuttered against the encroaching evening. A rusted sign creaked in the wind above a shuttered general store: OSPREY'S COVE - EST. 1884. The few locals I passed on the sidewalk did not turn their heads to look at my passing car; they kept their gazes fixed on the pavement, shoulders hunched against the Atlantic gale, as if practiced in the art of seeing nothing and saying less.

According to the faded map I had found in Clara’s box, Gwen’s property—known locally as the Sterling Estate—was situated at the very end of Sentinel Point, a jagged peninsula jutting out into the open ocean about four miles past the town center.

I switched off my headlights a half-mile before the estate’s iron gates, coasting slowly down the unpaved access road under the canopy of ancient, moss-draped pines. The forest was suffocatingly quiet, broken only by the crunch of gravel beneath my tires and the distant, rhythmic roar of waves crashing against cliff faces.

Suddenly, the trees parted, revealing a sprawling, Victorian-style manor perched precariously on top of a sheer granite bluff overlooking the churning sea.

It was a monolith of dark stone and rotting timber, its tall, narrow windows glaring like sightless eyes against the gray twilight sky. A single amber light burned in a second-floor window, casting a sickly, jaundiced glow over the overgrown front lawn where twisted thornbushes clawed at the air like skeletal hands.

I parked the sedan behind a thick cluster of pine trees, cut the engine, and sat in the sudden, absolute silence of the vehicle.

My heart gave a sharp, painful flutter against my ribs—a familiar warning flutter that made my left arm tingle. I reached into my coat pocket, pulled out a small plastic bottle of nitroglycerin pills, and placed one under my tongue. The bitter, chemical taste dissolved slowly, subduing the rebellious muscle in my chest just enough to steady my breathing.