Chapter 3 — Shadows on the Bridge
Emma
The bridge rose ahead of her, a skeletal structure of rust and decay that seemed to defy the soft morning light. Emma slowed her car, parking a few feet from where the road turned to gravel. She killed the engine and sat for a moment, her hands tightening around the steering wheel. The hum of the car faded, leaving only the whisper of the wind and the faint rush of the river below. Her chest felt tight, like the air itself had thickened with the memories this place held.
The Old Bridge. A place she had spent years avoiding, now unavoidable.
She stepped out of the car, the crunch of her boots on the gravel reverberating in the silence. The scent of damp earth and moss hit her immediately, mingling with the faint tang of metal that seemed to emanate from the bridge itself. The river below was sluggish, its surface marred by patches of debris that drifted aimlessly. Overhead, the sky threatened rain, gray clouds casting long shadows across the landscape.
The guardrail came into view as she approached, jagged and bent, as though violently twisted by invisible hands. Emma stopped short, her pulse hammering in her ears. She crouched down, her fingers brushing the metal hesitantly. The scratches and scuff marks she’d noticed yesterday were clearer now in the softer light. The bends and grooves weren’t natural—this hadn’t been an accident. Someone had tampered with it.
Her stomach churned as she stood, her gaze flitting up and down the lonely stretch of bridge. The journal felt heavy in her bag, and she pulled it out, flipping it open to the page with the list of locations. James’s handwriting was hurried, the ink slightly smudged as if his hand had trembled while writing. The bridge was the first name on the list, circled boldly.
“This wasn’t just an accident, James,” she murmured under her breath, her voice barely audible over the river’s murmur.
A faint sound behind her—footsteps crunching on gravel—made her freeze. She turned sharply, her heart leaping into her throat.
Tom stood a few yards away, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, his tall frame almost blending into the shadows cast by the bridge. His piercing blue eyes locked onto hers, unreadable but heavy with something she couldn’t name.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded, her voice sharper than she intended. The suddenness of his appearance, coupled with the oppressive weight of the bridge, made her feel cornered.
He hesitated, then took a step closer. “I saw your car. Thought you might be here.”
Emma crossed her arms, her knuckles brushing against the edges of the journal. “What, are you following me now?”
“No,” he said quickly, his tone apologetic. “Not exactly. I just… I had a feeling you’d come here.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, the frustration building in her chest. “Why? Why would you think that?”
Tom’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, he didn’t respond. His silence stretched thin between them, amplifying the tension that had already been simmering since their encounter at the diner.
“Because I knew this is where it starts,” he finally said, his voice low. “Where it all started to fall apart.”
Emma exhaled a bitter laugh, the sound cutting through the quiet. “That’s putting it lightly.”
Tom took another step toward her, his hands leaving his pockets to hang loosely at his sides. “I don’t want to fight, Emma. I came because there’s something you need to know. About that night.”
Her breath caught, her fingers tightening around the journal. “What night?” she asked, though she already knew. The trembling in her voice betrayed her.
“The night James…” Tom trailed off, his gaze dropping to the cracked pavement beneath their feet. “The night he died.”
Emma’s chest tightened, her pulse roaring in her ears. “Don’t,” she said, her voice shaking. “Don’t you dare say his name like you have the right.”
Tom flinched, but he didn’t back down. “I was there, Emma. I was driving.”
The words hit her like a blow, knocking the air from her lungs. She stumbled back a step, her free hand reaching out to steady herself against the bridge’s twisted guardrail. “What?”
“I was driving the car that night,” Tom said, his voice cracking under the weight of the confession. “James asked me to give him a ride. He said he needed to confront someone—”
“Stop,” Emma interrupted, her voice rising. “Just stop. You’re lying.”
“I’m not,” he said, his tone desperate. “I’ve been carrying this for years, Emma. I’ve wanted to tell you, but—”
“But what?” she snapped, her anger boiling over. “You didn’t think I deserved to know? You didn’t think I had the right to the truth?”
Tom ran a hand through his hair, his frustration evident. “It wasn’t that simple. There’s more to it—things I couldn’t say until I knew for sure—”
“For sure?” Emma’s laugh was harsh, almost hysterical. “For sure what, Tom? That you could get away with it if you stayed quiet long enough?”
“That’s not fair,” he shot back, his voice rising to match hers. “You don’t know what it’s been like—what I’ve been going through.”
“Going through?” Emma took a step toward him, her eyes blazing. “You were going through something? My brother is dead, Tom. James is dead. And you—” Her voice cracked, the weight of her emotions threatening to drown her. “You’ve just been… what? Living your life? Pretending it didn’t happen?”
Tom’s expression hardened, his own anger flashing in his eyes. “I’ve never pretended it didn’t happen. Not for a single day. I’ve been trying to figure out the truth, just like you.”
Her laugh was bitter. “You expect me to believe that? After all these years?”
“Yes,” he said firmly, his voice steady now. “Because I know what I saw that night, Emma. And I know it wasn’t an accident.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Emma’s breath came in shallow gasps, her mind racing. “What do you mean?” she asked after a long pause, her voice barely above a whisper.
Tom hesitated, his gaze flickering to the guardrail. “The car didn’t lose control on its own. Someone tampered with it. Someone wanted James dead.”
Emma stared at him, her heart pounding so loudly she thought it might burst. Her mind flashed to James’s journal, his ominous notes, the list of locations. “Who?” she whispered.
Tom shook his head, his frustration evident. “I don’t know for sure. But I think… I think it was my father.”
The ground seemed to shift beneath her feet, the weight of his words threatening to crush her. “Your father?” she repeated, her voice trembling.
Tom nodded, his jaw tight. “There are things I’ve found—things I’ve been piecing together. My father was involved in something—something James must have uncovered. That’s why he wanted to confront him that night.”
Emma’s legs felt weak, and she leaned against the guardrail for support. The journal in her hand felt like it was burning her skin, James’s words echoing in her mind. “This can’t be real,” she whispered.
“It is,” Tom said, his voice heavy with regret. “I’m sorry, Emma. For everything. For not telling you sooner. But I swear, I’m going to help you figure this out. I owe you that.”
She looked at him, her green eyes filled with tears she refused to let fall. “You owe me more than that, Tom,” she said quietly.
“I know,” he replied, his voice barely audible. “And I’m not giving up until I make it right.”
Emma turned away, her gaze fixed on the river below. The water churned sluggishly, its surface reflecting the storm clouds gathering overhead. The answers she sought felt closer than ever, but so did the danger.
She tightened her grip on the journal and took a deep breath. “If you’re serious about helping me, then you’d better be ready. Because I’m not stopping until I find the truth.”
Tom stepped closer, his presence steadying despite the storm brewing between them. “Neither am I.”
The tension between them was palpable, but for the first time, there was a sliver of understanding, fragile and unspoken. As the wind picked up and the first drops of rain began to fall, Emma turned to leave, her resolve stronger than ever.
The truth was out there, buried beneath years of lies and secrets, and she was going to uncover it—no matter the cost.
