The cold mud of the Hudson Valley tasted like iron and decayed leaves, but I didn't care about the taste.
I only cared about the heartbeat beneath my hand.
"Eleanor," I whispered, my voice cracking as the freezing rain beat down on the shattered windshield of our vintage Jaguar. "Eleanor, look at me."
My wife of forty-five years slowly opened her eyes, her face pale under the dim glow of the dashboard light.
A thin trickle of blood ran down her temple, mixing with the rain that poured through the cracked sunroof.
She didn't cry out, nor did she complain about the pain in her shoulder or the fact that our car was currently wedged at a forty-five-degree angle in a deep, muddy ravine off Route 9.
Instead, she reached down and patted the worn, scratched leather purse resting on her lap.
"I have it, Arthur," she breathed, her voice trembling but resolute. "I didn't let go."
That purse contained the only physical copy of our late son Julian’s journal, along with the original deed to the Whispering Pines Youth Sanctuary.
It was the very project Julian had died trying to build, and tonight was supposed to be the grand opening gala—a multi-million-dollar charity event held at the exclusive Whispering Pines Estate.
But we had never made it to the red carpet.
Just three miles from the venue, a massive black SUV had surged out of the darkness, its headlights blinding me as it intentionally rammed our rear bumper, sending us spinning out of control into the ditch.
I struggled against my seatbelt, the pain in my ribs sharp and white-hot, but I managed to release the buckle and push open the crumpled driver-side door.
The freezing November wind hit me like a physical blow, soaking my tailored wool trousers and silk shirt in seconds.
I scrambled around to the passenger side, my expensive leather loafers sinking deep into the thick, freezing mud.
"We have to walk, Ellie," I said, helping her climb out of the wreckage. "Our phones are smashed, and there's no signal down in this hollow anyway."
She leaned on me, her elegant silk gown instantly ruined, smeared with black grease and wet earth.
Over her shoulders, she wore a thin, faded grey cardigan she had grabbed from the back seat—a piece of clothing so worn it was almost translucent.
We looked like ghosts, two broken old people wandering out of the woods, miles away from the glittering billionaires we were supposed to be.
But we couldn't stop, because I knew the crash wasn't an accident.
Just an hour before we left the house, I had received a blocked call on my personal phone—a voice that was muffled and distorted, warning me to stay away from the gala.
"Some roads are too dangerous to travel, Arthur," the voice had said. "Stay home tonight."
I had ignored it, believing our security detail at the venue would keep us safe, but now, as we dragged ourselves up the muddy embankment, the truth was terrifyingly clear.
Someone wanted us dead, or at the very least, they wanted to make sure we didn't show up to our own son's memorial tonight.
We walked for nearly forty minutes along the shoulder of the dark highway, the rain relentless, our breath forming white plumes in the freezing air.
Every headlamp that approached in the distance made my heart seize with panic, forcing us to hide in the wet brush until the vehicles passed.
By the time we reached the towering wrought-iron gates of the Whispering Pines Estate, my hands were numb, and my left knee was swollen to twice its size.
The estate was ablaze with light, its massive crystal chandeliers casting a warm, golden glow through the towering glass facade of the main hall.
Dozens of luxury sedans and sports cars lined the manicured driveway, and the faint, elegant sound of a string quartet drifted through the rain.
We bypassed the main security gate, slipping through a side pedestrian entrance that had been left unlocked for the catering staff.