Chapter 6 - Where Is Richard?
The rain hammered the windshield of Ethan’s truck like a thousand lead pellets. For six agonizing hours, Ethan drove the backroads of the county.
He checked every diner his father had ever frequented. He checked the old lumber mill Richard had owned thirty years ago, now an abandoned shell of corrugated iron and overgrown weeds. He checked the municipal cemetery where his mother was buried; her marble headstone sat alone under the weeping willows, untouched by fresh flowers or footprints.
Richard had vanished like smoke.
At 3:00 PM, Ethan pulled off onto the gravel shoulder of Highway 9, his head resting against the steering wheel. Despair was an iron fist crushing his windpipe.
*Where would he go when he had nothing left?*
Ethan closed his eyes, searching the archives of his childhood. He remembered a summer when he was twelve years old. Richard had lost a massive contract, nearly bankrupting the company. Ethan had walked into the kitchen to find his father packing an old canvas bag with fishing tackle and a thermos.
*“When the noise of the world gets too loud, son, you go back to where the foundations are made of rock, not money.”*
Ethan’s eyes snapped open.
*The Pine Ridge cabin.*
It wasn't listed on any modern asset sheet. It was a six-acre parcel of rocky coastal cliffside Richard had bought with his very first paycheck as an apprentice carpenter in 1968. There was no electricity, no running water—just a one-room cabin built of hand-hewn cedar logs and a fieldstone fireplace overlooking the turbulent Atlantic surf. Sophia had demanded he sell it four years ago, calling it an "embarrassing shack." Richard had quietly refused, but Ethan hadn't thought about the place in a decade.
Ethan slammed the truck into gear, spraying gravel across the asphalt as he whipped a U-turn.
The drive took ninety minutes, winding through dense, mist-shrouded pine forests that flanked the rugged coastline. The access road was barely two dirt ruts overgrown with briars. The truck bottomed out twice, the chassis groaning against the rocks, but Ethan didn't slow down.
Finally, the forest broke.
There, perched on the cliff edge against the raging gray sea, stood the cabin.
Thin gray smoke was curling from the stone chimney.
Ethan killed the engine. His hands were shaking so hard he struggled to pull the keys from the ignition. He stepped out into the freezing wind, the salt spray stinging his eyes, and walked slowly toward the weathered porch.
Every step felt like walking up the steps to the gallows. What right did he have to be here? What right did he have to ask for anything from the man he had betrayed?
Ethan reached the porch. The wooden boards creaked under his weight. He lifted his hand to knock, but the rough cedar door was slightly ajar.
He pushed it open.
Inside, the cabin was warm, smelling of burning birch and damp wool. A single cast-iron kettle simmered over a low fire in the hearth.
Sitting in an old rocking chair beside the hearth, wrapped in a faded wool blanket, was Richard.
His face was pale, his eyes sunken with exhaustion. The bruise on his left cheek had bloomed into a deep, sickening shade of violet and black—the physical signature of his son’s betrayal.
Richard didn't turn his head. He stared into the embers of the fire.
May you like
“The door lets the draft in, Ethan,” Richard said, his voice quiet, worn down to the bone. “Close it.”
***
