Chapter 3 - THE SHADOW OF BEACON HILL
The snow in Boston fell differently than it did in Chicago. Here, it clung to the historic red brick of Beacon Hill, quiet and heavy, muffling the sound of the world.
Meline Hayes walked down the steep slope of Pinckney Street, her boots crunching softly on the fresh powder. She wore a thick, oversized wool coat she had bought at a thrift store, her hands buried deep in her pockets, resting over the prominent curve of her belly.
She was eighteen weeks now.
Every morning, she woke up to the quiet kick of her child. She had started calling him "Little Bean" in her head, a private joke between her and the quiet room she rented.
"Careful on the ice, Clara," her landlord, Mr. Abernathy, called out as he shoveled the steps of his townhouse. He was eighty, with thick glasses and a kind smile that made Meline’s chest ache for a family she no longer had.
"I will, Mr. Abernathy," Meline said, offering him a small, practiced smile. "Just going to the market."
"The professor called," the old man added, resting his shovel. "He said he has a new box of seventeenth-century ledger books from the shipping office in Salem. He wants you to start on them tomorrow."
"Thank you. I'll call him."
Meline walked toward the small grocery store on Charles Street, her mind drifting to the yellowed pages of the ledger books she spent her days cataloging. It was peaceful work. The past didn't hunt you. The dead merchants of Salem didn't have security details or hitmen.
She felt safe.
But as she turned the corner near the common, a strange sensation crept up her spine. It was a cold, prickling feeling she hadn't felt since Wicker Park—the sensation of being watched.
She stopped in front of a bookstore window, pretending to look at the display, using the glass reflection to scan the street behind her.
A dark SUV with tinted windows was parked idling near the curb.
The plates were out-of-state. Illinois.
Meline’s breath caught in her throat. Her hand instinctively tightened over her stomach, the fabric of her coat bunching in her fist.
No, she told herself, forcing her breathing to slow. It’s just a coincidence. There are thousands of cars from Illinois. You’re being paranoid.
But when she walked into the grocery store, her hands were shaking so badly she could barely hold the plastic basket. She bought her milk, her bread, her oranges, her eyes darting to the entrance every time the bell chimed.
When she stepped back onto the street, the snow had grown thicker, a white curtain curtaining the old streetlights.
She took the long way back, winding through the narrow, gas-lit alleys of the hill, her heart hammering against her ribs. Every shadow looked like a man in a tailored suit. Every sound of a car engine sounded like a trap closing.
She reached her basement apartment, her key sliding into the lock with a trembling click. She slipped inside, shutting the heavy oak door behind her and throwing the deadbolt.
She leaned her back against the door, closing her eyes as she let out a long, ragged breath.
The apartment was warm, smelling of the cinnamon tea she had left in the pot. It was small—just a kitchen, a small bathroom, and a bedroom with a single window that looked out at the brick wall of the neighboring building.
"We’re safe," she whispered to her belly, her hand smoothing over the fabric of her sweater. "We’re okay."
She turned around to set her grocery bag on the counter.
May you like
And stopped dead.
Sitting in the single armchair in the corner of her living room, his long legs crossed, his dark coat damp with melted snow, was Dominic Valente.
