Chapter 11 - The Approach to Harbor Ridge
The fifteen-year-old sedan rattled past the rusted cattle guard that marked the boundary of the Harbor Ridge Rehabilitation Center, the suspension groaning in protest against the uneven gravel of the access road. Sloan kept her hands firmly at ten and two on the worn leather steering wheel, her knuckles pale, her eyes fixed on the low-slung brick buildings that sprawled beneath a canopy of turning maples. The air here smelled different from the crisp, salt-tinged wind of the Moretti estate; it smelled of damp pine needles, industrial laundry detergent, and the faint, unmistakable tang of boiled cabbage from the cafeteria.
For months, her visits to Junie had been measured out in stolen hours, squeezed between midnight audits of Raphael Moretti’s private ledgers and the grueling predawn hours when she scrubbed marble floors until her palms bled. Now, the cashier’s check tucked safely inside her purse—representing a sum so large it still made her breath catch—meant she didn't have to look at her watch every twenty minutes. She didn't have to calculate how long she could stay before Daniel Bishop would notice her absence and send a black town car to drag her back to the kitchens.
She parked in the designated visitor slot beside a faded blue station wagon whose bumper was covered in optimistic bumper stickers. Turning off the ignition, she sat in the sudden, vibrating silence of the car, letting the engine cool with a series of metallic tinks.
"We made it, Junie," she whispered to the empty passenger seat, though her sister was three hundred yards away in the physical therapy wing, likely struggling through her morning leg-raises with that fierce, stubborn scowl she had inherited from their mother.
Sloan reached into the back seat and scooped up her canvas tote bag, alongside the small leather medical kit Daniel had handed her at the gates. Inside the kit weren't bandages or scalpels, but a collection of old herbal salves she had brewed in the Moretti kitchens using Raphael’s imported lavender and beeswax—remedies designed to soothe the deep muscle spasms that racked Junie's legs after every grueling session.
As she walked up the concrete steps of the main entrance, the heavy double doors swung open with a pneumatic hiss, and the familiar wave of antiseptic and institutional floor wax hit her senses. A receptionist behind the high laminate desk looked up, her expression softening into a sympathetic smile upon recognizing the tall, dark-haired woman in the worn trench coat.
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"Morning, Sloan," the receptionist said, tapping a plastic visitor badge against the counter. "You're just in time. Dr. Evans moved Junie up to the parallel bars ten minutes ago."
Sloan didn't wait for the badge to slide across the counter; she grabbed it, pinned it to her lapel with practiced speed, and headed down the linoleum-floored corridor toward the gym, her heart hammering a familiar, desperate rhythm against her ribs.
