Chapter 8 - The Ghost of Mercer Island
Spring returned to the Pacific Northwest with a sudden, violent burst of color. Cherry blossoms lined the streets of Mercer Island, dropping pink petals onto the wet pavement like confetti celebrating a war that had finally ended.
Claire spent her Saturday mornings differently now. Instead of waking up in a cold sweat listening for Derek’s heavy footsteps on the hardwood floor, she walked the perimeter of the estate with a golden retriever puppy named Atlas—a rescue dog she had adopted from the local shelter to break the oppressive silence of the empty house.
As she unlocked the wrought-iron front gates of the Mercer Island property, she noticed a sleek, unmarked black sedan parked across the street under the shade of a towering cedar tree.
She didn't need to check the license plate. She knew who was inside.
Claire walked across the asphalt, her boots crunching softly against the gravel, and tapped twice on the passenger-side window of the sedan.
The tinted glass rolled down smoothly, revealing Ethan Park behind the steering wheel, reading a physical copy of the Wall Street Journal.
"Are you planning to stake out my driveway every weekend, Mr. Park?" Claire asked, raising an eyebrow with an amused smile.
"I'm not staking out your driveway," Ethan replied smoothly, folding the newspaper and tossing it onto the passenger seat. "I'm providing perimeter security for a high-profile corporate executive who refuses to install proper perimeter motion sensors."
"My dog is a motion sensor," Claire retorted, gesturing toward Atlas, who was currently sniffing a fire hydrant with intense enthusiasm. "And besides, you're trespassing on public municipal pavement."
Ethan opened the car door and stepped out onto the street, adjusting his cuffs. "Technically, the city maintains this pavement using tax revenue generated by commercial shipping terminals. Which my company owns a controlling stake in. Therefore, I am merely inspecting municipal infrastructure."
Claire laughed—a bright, musical sound that would have been unrecognizable to the woman trapped in the dining room twelve months ago.
"You're impossible," she said.
"I've been told that by better lawyers than you," Ethan deadpanned, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward in a rare, genuine smile. "Are you free for lunch? There's a new seafood place down by Pike Place Market that doesn't let reporters or board members through the front door."
"Only if you promise not to interrogate the waitstaff about corporate embezzlement between courses," Claire joked.
May you like
"No promises," Ethan replied, gesturing toward her front gate. "After you."
They walked side-by-side down the sunlit sidewalk toward the lake, leaving the ghosts of Mercer Island behind them in the rearview mirror. The house was no longer a museum of grief. It was just a house again—warm, open, and filled with light.
