Chapter 7 - THE HOUSE IN MAINE|
I had not returned to my grandmother's house in six years.
After she died, I had rented the property to a local family before eventually selling it to cover debts left by my father's disappearance.
The new owners had moved away years earlier.
I had assumed the house was empty.
Now someone was sending me photographs of it.
Adrian wanted to send a security team ahead of us.
I refused.
"If someone is trying to frighten me, arriving with ten armed men will only tell them it worked."
"Someone may be waiting for you."
"Then we should find out who."
He studied me.
"You have a remarkable talent for making dangerous decisions sound reasonable."
"I learned from watching you."
He almost smiled.
We left Boston before dawn with two security officers following at a distance.
The drive to Maine took several hours. I watched the familiar landscape unfold through the window, remembering winters when my grandmother and I walked to the grocery store beneath heavy scarves.
She had taught me to bake blueberry pie, mend torn clothes, and recognize when someone was lying by the way they avoided a direct question.
I had not understood how often she must have used those skills to keep us safe.
When we reached the property, the front door stood open.
Adrian signaled for the officers to remain outside.
We entered carefully.
Dust covered the furniture. Broken glass lay near the kitchen window. Someone had searched the house recently, leaving drawers open and papers scattered across the floor.
I walked toward the living room.
A small wooden cabinet stood beside the fireplace.
My grandmother had kept her important documents there.
The cabinet was empty.
Then I noticed a loose floorboard beneath the rug.
I knelt and lifted it.
Inside lay a metal box wrapped in an old wool scarf.
My hands shook as I opened it.
There were letters, photographs, and a small tape recorder.
The first letter was addressed to my mother.
The second was addressed to me.
I unfolded it.
My dear Nora,
If you have found this box, then the people I feared have finally discovered what I spent years protecting.
Your mother was not killed because she knew too much about the Cole family. She was killed because she refused to hand over evidence that could destroy a man who believed himself untouchable.
I was there the night she died.
I stopped reading.
Adrian crouched beside me.
"Take your time."
I continued.
I saw the car that followed her. I heard the crash. And I watched a man leave the scene before the ambulance arrived.
I recognized him.
The letter ended without naming the man.
I looked up.
"Why wouldn't she write his name?"
Adrian examined the paper.
"Maybe she was afraid someone would find it."
He picked up the tape recorder.
The batteries were corroded, but the cassette remained intact.
We found an old player in a cupboard and inserted the tape.
Static crackled through the speakers.
Then a woman's voice emerged.
My mother's voice.
"If anything happens to me, Nora must never be allowed to enter the Cole estate. They will tell her that Richard was a good man and that the family will protect her."
A second voice answered.
"What do you want us to do?"
"Keep her away from Adrian. His father knows more than he's willing to admit."
The recording ended abruptly.
I stared at the machine.
"She knew about Adrian."
"She knew about my family," he said.
"That's not the same thing."
"No."
He looked genuinely troubled.
"My father may have been trying to expose the fraud. But he was still part of the world that allowed your mother to die."
I looked at the photographs.
One showed my mother standing beside Richard Cole.
Another showed my grandmother outside a hospital.
The last showed a young Adrian, perhaps seventeen, standing with a woman whose face had been scratched out.
I turned it over.
A handwritten note read:
The boy must never know what happened in the warehouse.
Adrian took the photograph.
His expression changed.
"I remember this day."
"What happened?"
"I was told that a warehouse worker had been killed in an accident. My father ordered me to stay away from the investigation."
"Did you?"
"I was seventeen. I obeyed him."
He stared at the picture.
"I've spent my life believing obedience made me a good son."
Before I could answer, a floorboard creaked upstairs.
Adrian reached for his phone.
The security officers outside reported no movement.
Then we heard footsteps overhead.
Someone was inside the house.
Adrian signaled for me to stay behind him.
We moved toward the staircase.
At the top, a bedroom door stood open.
A man stepped into the corridor holding a pistol.
Adrian raised his hands.
"Who sent you?"
The man looked past him at me.
"Your grandmother should have destroyed the evidence."
Then he turned and ran.
Adrian pursued him down the stairs, but the man escaped through the back door.
Outside, one of the security officers shouted.
A vehicle sped away from the property.
Adrian returned carrying a small envelope he had found beside the bedroom window.
Inside was a photograph of Victor Shaw.
On the back were four words.
Ask him about the fire.
Adrian stared at it.
Then he looked at me.
May you like
"Whatever happened twenty-five years ago," he said, "Victor was there."
And somewhere in Boston, Victor Shaw was already preparing to explain why.
