Chapter 38 - The Edge of the Cliff
With the desperate speed of a cornered predator, Nicholas didn't wait for the front doors to be breached. He shoved the heavy oak desk directly toward us, sending lamps and crystal carafes crashing to the floor, and vaulted through the shattered glass of the French doors onto the stone terrace.
"Stop him!" Celeste screamed.
"He's heading for the secondary cliff path!" Eleanor yelled, running after him.
Rain had begun to pour in blinding sheets, turning the stone steps slick and dangerous. Mia, Eleanor, and I sprinted into the tempest, following the dark silhouette of Nicholas racing toward the private garage where the estate’s vintage sports cars were stored.
Tires screeched violently. A roar of an engine cut through the thunderstorm as Nicholas’s vintage black Aston Martin burst through the wooden garage doors, hurtling down the narrow, serpentine cliff road that wound around the highest ridge of Elmwood Hill.
"He's going to hit the highway and disappear into the back country!" Mia shouted over the roaring thunder.
"Not in that car," Eleanor said with deadly calm. "Get in."
She pointed to the lead federal SUV parked by the fountain. The keys were still in the ignition, its engine idling. Eleanor slid into the driver's seat with a ferocity that stunned us. Mia jumped into the passenger side; Celeste and I scrambled into the rear.
Eleanor slammed the SUV into gear, tires biting into the wet gravel, and launched us into the torrential rain after him.
The chase down the mountain ridge was terrifying. Rain battered the windshield so violently that the wipers could barely clear the glass. Ahead of us, Nicholas's red taillights flared as he drifted violently around the treacherous hairpin turns.
"Eleanor, slow down!" I gasped, clutching the grab handle as our heavy SUV slid dangerously close to the sheer drop-off overlooking the churning river two hundred feet below.
"I spent twenty-four years running down this mountain in the dark, Lila," Eleanor said, her hands rock-steady on the steering wheel, her eyes locked ahead with razor-sharp precision. "I know every inch of this road in my bones."
Around the final hairpin turn—the exact spot where Eleanor’s car had plunged off the road decades ago—a massive oak tree, struck by lightning just moments prior, lay smoldering across the asphalt.
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Nicholas slammed on his brakes. His tires locked. The Aston Martin spun out of control, tires screeching in agonizing protest as the car slid sideways, violently smashing through the wooden guardrail and coming to a dead stop, suspended precariously over the abyss.
***
