Page 80 of Freedom’s Inferno

Something about the way he said it made my stomach ache, the reflex of a man trying to hold on to something while everything else kept slipping through his fingers.

“I’ll be here,” I said, turning the rosary over in my palm.

He didn’t say anything else. He turned and started toward the coffee shop, his shoulders rigid, his movements clipped and uneven.

I watched him go, watched the door close behind him, and for a long moment I stood there in the fog, the rosary cold and heavy in my hand. Part of me wanted to follow him, but the rest of me knew he needed to be alone to break in a place where no one could see it happen.

I waited until he disappeared from view, then I turned away. Something else caught my eye. The world across the parking lot shifted through the fog, and my gaze snagged on a neon sign flickering in a shop window across the street: Whitmore’s Clockworks.

My breath caught.

The rosary was still cold in my hand when I slipped it into my jacket pocket, the weight of it too personal. My fingers fumbled for something else, brushing against the smooth edge of cardstock, and I pulled it out. I thought my mind was playing tricks on me until I held the card up: Whitmore’s Clockworks, the name printed in neat, serifed type, the same looping W that winked at me from across the street.

My breath hitched, a pulse of disbelief sharp in my chest. What were the odds? Before I could second-guess it, I was already moving. My boots splashed through a shallow puddle as I crossed the street, the air damp and cool against my face.

I didn’t look back toward the coffee shop. I couldn’t.

Reaching the door, I hesitated only for a moment before pushing it open. The small brass bells above the frame chimed softly. Inside, the air smelled of oil and varnish, metallic beneath a sweetness like old wood polish. Clocks covered every surface, hung on the walls, perched on narrow shelves, arranged in careful rows along the counters. Every shape and era, ticking in overlapping rhythms that filled the space like breath.

My discomfort was palpable.

I stood there, disoriented. My pulse raced, my thoughts scrambling for reason. I didn’t know what I was looking for, or what I’d say if someone asked why I was there. Maybe I’d ask if they remembered my husband. Maybe I’d ask what kind of work he’d had done. Something. Anything to make this make sense.

A soft creak came from the back room, followed by the shuffle of footsteps.

Then a man appeared, wiping his hands on a rag. He looked to be in his fifties, maybe older, with close-cropped gray hair and the kind of careful eyes that took measure of a person before speaking. Fine wood shavings dusted his apron, and when he looked up, he smiled.

“Can I help you, miss?”

I froze. I recognized his face.

The memory hit like a reel of film flickering to life, the foyer bright with sunlight, the air sharp with polish and dust.

He’d been crouched beside the grandfather clock, its pendulum still while he worked. I remembered his careful movements, the concentration etched into his face, the brief nod he gave me as I crossed the hall with a glass of wine in hand.

Swallowing hard, my gaze flicked from the man to the rows of clocks behind him.

“Custom designs,” I murmured under my breath, repeating the phrase from the back of the business card. My fingers tightened around it, the paper softening in my grip.

The merchant tilted his head. “Pardon?”

“Oh! No, I’m sorry. I don’t need any help, thank you…” I stammered, taking a step backward toward the door. The realization was already blooming, hot and electric, threading through me like a current.

Suddenly, I understood.

I stumbled out of the shop, the bell above the door chiming as it closed behind me. The sound felt too small for what was happening inside me. My pulse beat like a drum in my ears, my body caught somewhere between panic and disbelief.

The fog outside had thickened, curling around the street like smoke. Everything looked softer now, the streetlight halos, the faded paint of the crosswalk, the shimmer of water pooled in the gutter. The quiet was disorienting after the endless ticking of clocks.

I stood there, my hand pressed against my chest, trying to breathe past the wild rhythm of my heart. I didn’t know where to start, or what to do with my discovery. I only knew I had to get back to Charlie. He needed to know.

I turned to start back across the street toward the coffee shop, my gaze landing on the flashing open sign in the window. I took a step forward, blood pounding in my ears, when a car door slammed somewhere behind me. I stopped, brows knitting. The sound was wrong, too loud in the quiet, and too close.

My stomach dropped.

I turned, scanning the fog, but all I could see was the vague outline of buildings, and the slick gleam of pavement.

Then headlights flared, blinding white through the mist. A black SUV rolled toward me fast, tires whispering against the wet road.