Chapter 4: The North Ridge Road
The taxi driver dropped us off at the rusted iron service gate of the Vance estate just as the morning mist was beginning to burn off the upper canopy of the oak trees. The fare had cost every remaining dollar of the grocery money I’d stolen from my mother's purse before we left, leaving us with exactly thirty-four cents and a long walk back down the mountain if things went wrong.
"Sure you kids want out here?" the driver asked, looking back through the plexiglass partition with a suspicious squint. "This is private property. Security patrols this road every twenty minutes."
"We're meeting my grandmother," I said evenly, keeping my face flat and unreadable.
The driver grunted, popped the trunk so I could retrieve our small canvas duffel bag, and sped off down the winding asphalt road, leaving us standing alone in the damp mountain air.
The North Ridge was another world entirely. Here, the houses weren't split into cramped apartments with peeling paint; they were sprawling stone manors set back hundreds of yards from the road behind manicured lawns and thick groves of cedar trees. The Vance estate—known locally as Highwood—was the grandest of them all, a massive English Tudor revival surrounded by a ten-foot brick wall topped with iron spikes and security cameras.
We didn't try the front gates. We walked three hundred yards down the perimeter wall until we found the old gardener's gate—a rusted wooden door half-hidden by thick cascades of wild hydrangea and English ivy. I pushed against it, and to my surprise, the ancient latch gave way with a muffled creak.
We slipped inside, stepping onto a damp bed of pine needles that muffled our footsteps instantly. The grounds were vast, stretching out into formal rose gardens, gravel carriage drives, and a massive glass conservatory that caught the morning sun like a jagged tooth.
"Leo, it's pretty," Lily whispered, her eyes wide as she looked up at the towering slate roof of the main house.
"Stay close, Lil," I warned, keeping us in the shadow of the tall boxwood hedges that lined the eastern lawn.
We made it to the rear terrace without seeing a soul. French doors opened out from a massive sunroom where shafts of pale sunlight cut through the dust motes hanging in the heavy air. Through the glass, I could see an old woman sitting in a high-backed velvet armchair by a cold stone fireplace. She wore a dark emerald dressing gown, her silver hair pinned back with severe precision, a heavy wool blanket draped over her knees even though the room was brightly lit.
Sarah Vance.
She wasn't reading. She was staring out the window toward the valley below, holding a small silver teacup in one hand with a stillness that made her look like a marble statue carved decades ago and left forgotten in the attic.
I raised my fist and rapped three sharp, distinct times against the glass pane.
The old woman didn't jump. She slowly turned her head toward the sound, her sharp, pale blue eyes locking onto us through the glass with an intensity that made my breath catch in my throat. She set her teacup down on the small mahogany table beside her with a dry clink, then reached out and turned the brass handle of the French door, pushing it open a few inches.
"The front entrance is around the drive, children," she said, her voice dry, cultured, and entirely devoid of warmth, carrying the unmistakable cadence of old money and absolute authority. "Peddlers and reporters are not permitted past the gatehouse."
I didn't move. I stepped forward into the narrow opening of the door, pulling Lily slightly behind me so the old woman could see the gray suit, the ivory dress, and the hard, unblinking glare in my eyes.
"We're not reporters, Mrs. Vance," I said, my voice not shaking once. "And we didn't come to see Julian. We came to see his mother."
Sarah's eyebrows drew together in a sharp, assessing line. She looked us over—the scuffed shoes, the cheap fabric, the unmistakable resemblance in the shape of the jaw and the set of the eyes that no amount of high-society polish could erase.
"Who sent you?" she asked, her voice dropping an octave, losing its polite veneer and turning into something razor-sharp.
May you like
I reached into my pocket, pulled out the heavy manila envelope with the red wax seal, and held it out across the threshold.
"My mother did," I said. "Before she died."
