Chapter 2 - The House on Bear Ridge
The cabin on Bear Ridge didn't have a street address. It had a mailbox made from an old steel ammo crate bolted to a cedar post, three miles up a dirt logging road that turned to slick clay whenever the weather turned bad.
Marcus pushed the heavy oak front door open with his boot, carrying Lily under one arm and a oilcloth duffel bag he’d pulled from the car’s trunk in the other.
The air inside the cabin smelled of cold wood ash, dried pine, and kerosene. Marcus kicked the door shut behind him, dropped the heavy deadbolt into place, and walked straight over to the iron woodstove in the corner.
He laid Lily down on the worn leather sofa. She didn't roll over or stretch. She stayed curled in the exact tight ball she’d been in under his coat, her thumb tucked deep into her mouth, her dark brown eyes tracking every move he made across the room.
Marcus knelt by the stove, crumpled up three sheets of old newspaper, stacked pine kindling over them, and struck a strike-anywhere match against the iron casing. The yellow flame caught instantly, roaring up the chimney pipe, casting long, jumping shadows across the pine-plank walls.
He turned back to the girl.
“Alright,” Marcus said, pulling off his heavy leather riding gloves and tossing them onto the table. “Let’s get you out of those wet rags.”
He reached for her boots. She didn't kick or pull back, but her tiny shoulders hitched. He unzipped the little yellow rubber boots and set them near the stove to dry, then unbuttoned the soaked pink jacket. Underneath, her shirt was damp at the collar.
Marcus went into his small bedroom, grabbed a clean gray sweatshirt from his drawer, and brought it back out. He pulled it over her head, rolling the sleeves up four times until her small, pale hands peeked out of the thick fleece.
“There,” Marcus muttered. “Better.”
He picked up the yellow note he’d shoved into his back pocket and laid it flat on the pine table beside the oilcloth duffel bag he’d hauled out of the crashed car’s trunk.
He unzipped the duffel.
Inside was a stack of worn children’s clothes, three cans of condensed milk, a plastic baby bottle, a small stuffed rabbit missing one button eye, and a thick Manila envelope sealed with silver duct tape.
Marcus ripped the tape off the envelope and tipped the contents onto the table.
Two stacks of hundred-dollar bills fell out—twenty thousand dollars total, wrapped in paper bands stamped with the seal of a regional bank in Ohio. Beside the cash fell a small black leather notebook and a laminated birth certificate.
Marcus picked up the certificate.
Lily Christine Mitchell. Born June 14, 2024. Mother: Clara Marie Mitchell. Father: Unlisted.
Marcus set the paper down and picked up the black notebook. The first thirty pages were filled with dates, financial figures, and addresses. Names were listed in tight, neat columns beside monetary amounts ranging from five thousand to fifty thousand dollars.
Near the back of the notebook, a newspaper clipping was tucked between the pages.
The headline read: INVESTIGATION INTO OAKRIDGE FOSTER SYSTEM CLOSED; NO CHARGES FILED.
Marcus stared at the bold black letters. The name Oakridge sent a cold, sharp blade right through his gut.
Sixteen years ago, before he spent five years in a state cell for breaking the jaw of a corrupt contractor who tried to steal his father’s land, Marcus had been a nineteen-year-old kid in the state system. He knew Oakridge. It wasn't a home. It was a private facility tucked behind iron gates in the southern county—a place where kids whose parents were dead or locked up were dropped off and forgotten while the owners collected state checks.
Marcus leaned his palms flat against the pine table, his knuckles turning white.
“Clara Mitchell,” he muttered to the empty room.
He looked over at the sofa. Lily was still awake, her head resting on the leather armrest, her small eyes fixed on him.
The fire in the woodstove crackled, sending a burst of heat into the quiet cabin. Outside, the rain was coming down harder now, drumming against the tin roof like a thousand tiny iron nails.
Marcus walked to the window, pulling the heavy wool curtain back an inch. Down at the bottom of Bear Ridge road, past the line of dark hemlock trees, he saw the faint, sweeping glow of headlights moving slowly through the fog.
They were looking for the car. Which meant by sunrise, they’d be looking for the child.
Marcus let the curtain fall back into place. He walked over to his workbench, pulled a cleaning rag and a bottle of gun oil from the shelf, and laid his old Colt .45 semi-automatic on the table beside the yellow note.
May you like
He looked at the little girl sleeping under his oversized sweatshirt.
“They ain't getting you,” Marcus said softly to the dark. “Not tonight. Not ever.”
