Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Rain
The rain poured in violent sheets over the winding coastal road leading away from Blackwater Cove.
Dante drove his dark sedan himself, refusing a driver. Beside him on the passenger seat lay the brass key Cass Voss had dropped on the dining table, along with a map of the local shoreline.
He knew Mara’s habits, or at least he had believed he did.
Over the six months of their courted engagement, Mara had been a silent presence. She was twenty-nine, educated at a quiet liberal arts college in Vermont, and had spent the last three years running a small, non-profit archival library in downtown Providence. She read history books, wore simple linen clothes, and spoke only when asked a direct question.
When his council had suggested her name, Dante had agreed immediately. After years of chaos following his father’s death, a quiet wife who demanded nothing and had no political ambitions of her own had seemed like a blessing.
“She isn't quiet,” Cass’s voice echoed in his mind. “She’s observant.”
Dante slammed his palm against the steering wheel.
How had he missed it?
He remembered the way she had looked at him during their rehearsal dinner two nights ago. She hadn't been admiring his wealth or his power. She had been assessing him. She had been measuring the width of his vanity, waiting to see if he was a man worth giving her life to.
And tonight, he had given her his answer.
His phone buzzed on the console. It was Marco.
“Boss, we checked the local train stations and the private airfield in Westerly. No sign of her. But one of our spotters near the old lighthouse saw a woman walking along the cliff path twenty minutes ago.”
“The cliff path?” Dante’s heart gave a sickening lurch. The cliffs near the Blackwater light were steep, granite ledges dropping seventy feet into churning, boulder-strewn surf. “Tell your men to stay back. Do not approach her.”
“Boss, if Wendell’s men spot her first—”
“I said stay back!” Dante snapped. “If anyone frightens her near those rocks, I’ll kill them myself.”
He ended the call and swung the car onto a narrow, unpaved gravel road that cut through thick pine woods toward the sea.
The trees gave way to bleak, wind-swept bluffs. In the distance, the beam of the decommissioned Blackwater Lighthouse swept across the black ocean every twelve seconds—a automated private beacon maintained by the historic society Mara volunteered for.
Dante stopped the car, killed the headlights, and stepped out into the gale.
The rain soaked through his wool coat in seconds. The wind beat against his face, tasting of salt and copper.
He walked toward the darkened base of the lighthouse, his boots sinking into wet mud and sea grass.
There, sitting on a stone bench beneath the shadow of the iron tower, wrapped in a dark woolen coat with her knees pulled against her chest, was Mara.
She wasn't crying.
She was watching the white foam smash against the rocks below.
Dante stopped ten feet away. His pulse was hammering in his ears—a frantic, terrifying rhythm he hadn't felt since he was a teenager in his father’s dangerous world.
“Mara.”
She didn't startle. She slowly turned her head. Her dark hair was plastered to her cheeks by the rain, her skin pale under the sweeping beam of the lighthouse beam. Her dark gray eyes met his without fear, without anger, and worst of all—without hatred.
There was only a vast, empty indifference.
“You brought an umbrella the last time we were here,” Mara said. Her voice was remarkably steady over the roar of the sea. “You told me the salt air ruined good wool.”
Dante took a step closer, holding out his hand.
“Mara, please. Come inside the car. You’re going to get hypothermia.”
She looked down at his open palm.
“I spent two hours sitting on the edge of our bed, Dante. I wore the silk dress. I kept the shoes on because I thought you would want me to look beautiful when you came through the door.”
Dante closed his eyes, a sharp, physical pain blooming behind his ribs.
“Mara...”
“I heard your boots in the hallway at midnight,” she continued quietly. “I stood up. I went to the door. And then I watched you turn right toward the east wing instead of left toward our room.”
She looked back out at the black sea.
“I followed you because I thought maybe you were going to check on security. I thought maybe there was trouble. And then I saw you close Prudence Vale’s door behind you.”
“It was a mistake,” Dante said, his voice raw, desperate in a way he barely recognized. “It meant nothing, Mara. I swear to you on my father’s grave, it was old habit. It was weakness. It meant nothing.”
May you like
Mara turned her face up to him, the bright light of the beacon catching the cold water on her eyelashes.
“That is what terrifies me, Dante,” she whispered. “You betrayed the woman you swore to protect six hours ago, and it meant nothing to you. If my dignity means so little to you on our wedding night, what will my life be worth to you in five years?”
