Continue reading to discover what happens in the chapter ahead.

-4-

The morning mist was still clinging to the glassy surface of Silver Lake as our SUV crunched down the gravel driveway just after sunrise. The massive timber-frame lodge—a sprawling architectural masterpiece of pine and fieldstone nestled among towering hemlocks—looked entirely serene, almost innocent, bathed in the pale golden light of early dawn.

Not a soul was in sight.

When Ben had served his mother the ultimatum yesterday afternoon, she and her entourage had packed their three luxury sedans within ninety minutes, screeching down the winding mountain road with enough rubber-burning fury to leave black marks on the asphalt. Marcus had tried to threaten us with a civil lawsuit, but Marcus didn't know the first thing about property title law, and Vance—our family attorney—had already filed a restraining order preventing any unauthorized return to the premises.

We parked near the main boathouse—a weathered cedar structure built out over the deep, dark water of the lake, its wooden pilings sinking deep into the murky silt below.

“Stay here,” Ben instructed, reaching into the trunk of the SUV and pulling out a heavy-duty toolbox, a crowbar, and a high-powered electric flashlight.

“I’m coming with you,” I said, unbuckling my seatbelt before he could argue.

“Me too, Dad,” Ella added instantly, clutching her track backpack like a shield. “I’m not sitting in the car by myself.”

Ben hesitated, looking between us, then gave a reluctant nod. “Fine. But stay close to the door. We don't know what we’re walking into.”

We walked down the wooden dock together, our sneakers thumping softly against the weathered planks. The air smelled of damp cedar, pine needles, and the cool, earthy scent of deep water. When Ben unlocked the heavy padlock on the boathouse door with his master key, the iron shackle gave a loud, metallic snap that seemed to echo off the quiet forest canopy.

He pushed the heavy wooden door open.

Inside, the boathouse smelled of old gasoline, fiberglass resin, and decades of dust. A derelict motorboat sat on its wooden cradle in the center of the slip, its vinyl seats torn and faded. Fishing rods were stacked neatly along the rafters, and life jackets hung from rusted wall hooks.

To the naked eye, it looked like any ordinary lakeside storage shed.

“Grandfather said the floor,” Ben muttered, sweeping the powerful beam of the flashlight across the splintered pine floorboards near the rear workbench.

He dropped to his knees, laying the heavy-duty flashlight on the dock floor so its beam illuminated a dark corner behind an old aluminum canoe. There, half-hidden beneath a pile of rotting canvas tarps and rusted anchor chains, was a trapdoor—flush with the wooden planks, secured not by a standard padlock, but by a heavy, industrial-grade deadbolt that required a specific key we didn't possess.

“Stand back,” Ben said grimly.

He wedged the flat end of the crowbar into the narrow seam of the trapdoor and threw his entire upper body weight against the iron shaft.

CRACK.

The ancient wood groaned, iron screws sheared away from their anchors like toothpicks, and the heavy door popped open with a hollow, echoing thud, releasing a sudden gust of cold, stagnant air that smelled faintly of old paper, damp earth, and something metallic—something like rusted iron and dried copper.

Ella coughed, waving her hand in front of her face. “Ugh, what is that smell?”