Chapter 5: The Harbor Diner
The salt air of Port Harbor tasted like iron and brine, biting sharply against my skin as we stepped off the bus three hours later. The town was a quiet, weathered place where old wooden fishing boats rocked listlessly against grey docks, and the screech of seagulls echoed over empty streets. It felt a world away from the marble ballrooms and glittering chandeliers of the city, yet I knew the distance was an illusion. Men like Julian DeLuca didn't lose their prey simply because the scenery changed.
My stomach knotted with hunger as I guided Lily down the rain-slicked boardwalk, her bare feet tucked safely inside a pair of oversized socks I had managed to pull onto her during the ride. The neon sign of Anchor’s End Diner flickered a tired pink against the overcast morning sky, casting a warm, greasy glow through its salt-crusted windows.
We slid into a vinyl-upholstered corner booth near the back, far from the front door. The diner smelled of old coffee grounds, fried bacon, and damp wool. An elderly waitress with a tired smile and a faded apron shuffled over, dropping two heavy ceramic mugs onto the table before speaking.
“Coffee’s hot, and the oatmeal’s fresh. You look like you’ve been caught in a squall, honey,” she said gently, her eyes lingering on Lily, who was busy arranging her stuffed rabbit on the laminate table.
“Just a long drive,” I murmured, keeping my voice low and even. “Two bowls of oatmeal, please. And a glass of whole milk.”
While the waitress shuffled away to the kitchen, the muted television mounted above the counter caught my eye. The local morning news broadcast was playing, the audio a low, unintelligible murmur beneath the clatter of silverware. But then the anchor's voice cut through the background noise, sharp and urgent. I froze, my gaze locking onto the screen.
”—continuing coverage of the massive security breach at the DeLuca Foundation’s winter charity gala. Authorities have yet to release details regarding the mysterious disappearance of a young child and her guardian late last night. Billionaire mogul Julian DeLuca has issued a statement offering a substantial reward for any information leading to—”
The screen cut to a still photograph. My breath caught in my throat. It wasn't a picture of me—the security cameras in the ballroom had captured only a blur of motion. Instead, the screen displayed a pristine, high-resolution close-up of Lily’s stuffed rabbit resting on the marble floor, next to a discarded silver lace ribbon.
Julian hadn't called the police to sweep it under the rug as a common kidnapping. He was broadcasting it to the entire eastern seaboard. He was baiting a trap, using the very symbol of his lost past to draw me out of hiding.
“Mommy, look,” Lily whispered, pointing a small finger at the television screen. “It’s Bunny.”
“Hush, sweetheart,” I said quickly, my hand trembling as I reached out to gently turn her chair around so her back was to the counter. My heart was pounding so hard I felt sick. He was looking for us. Not to punish us, necessarily—not yet. But because the ghost he had buried five years ago had just walked back into his life in the form of a four-year-old girl with hazel eyes and a cream-colored dress.
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The waitress returned, setting the steaming bowls of oatmeal down with a sympathetic clatter. I forced a tight, polite smile, sliding a ten-dollar bill across the table without waiting for change. We barely touched the food. Within ten minutes, we were back out on the street, ducking into a local dry-goods store where I purchased a cash-only burner phone and inquired about long-term rentals outside the town limits.
By noon, we had secured an isolated, weather-beaten sea-facing cabin perched on the edge of a rocky cliff three miles north of the harbor. It was drafty, smelling of old cedar and damp salt, but it had a heavy deadbolt on the front door and windows that looked out over the grey expanse of the ocean. As I locked us inside, listening to the rhythmic crash of the waves below, I realized we had only bought ourselves a few days at most before Julian’s network sniffed us out.
