Chapter 7
My father had been dead for nine years.
Eleanor knew that.
She wanted to hurt me.
But her words hit a place I did not expect.
Ask your father what he buried there.
Marcus heard it too.
His face changed.
“Dad didn’t bury anything.”
But he said it too fast.
I looked at him.
“What do you know?”
“Nothing.”
“Marcus.”
He sat down hard.
“When Dad was sick, he gave me a key.”
My heart thudded.
“What key?”
“To a storage chest at the cabin.”
“You never told me?”
“He said not unless someone came asking about the north dock.”
The room went silent.
Daniel leaned forward.
“Did Eleanor mention the dock?”
“No,” I said.
But Julian had.
Years ago, drunk at a family party, he had asked why my father bought land with private water access.
I thought it was small talk.
Now I remembered his expression.
Hungry.
We drove to the cabin with Leah following behind us.
The road felt longer than my childhood.
Pine trees closed around the driveway.
The cabin stood quiet by the lake.
For a moment, grief nearly swallowed me.
Then I saw the back door.
Open.
Marcus ran first.
I followed.
Inside, drawers had been dumped.
Floorboards pried up.
Photos broken.
My mother’s quilt torn across the couch.
Someone had searched everything.
Marcus pulled the key from his wallet.
We went to the shed near the north dock.
The old storage chest was gone.
Only drag marks remained in the dust.
Leah crouched.
“Fresh.”
Then we heard an engine across the water.
A small boat leaving the far shore.
Marcus shouted.
I ran to the dock.
Too late.
The boat sped into mist.
But something floated near the pilings.
A plastic bag.
Inside was a wet photograph.
My father standing beside a much younger Eleanor.
May you like
And on the back, in Dad’s handwriting:
If Eleanor comes for the cabin, call Robert Hale.
