“The road. The slope. That line of trees.” Sloane pointed toward the far end of the property. “I came here once with Daniel. He said he was meeting someone, but he wouldn’t tell me who. I waited near the road while he went inside. When he came back, he looked like he had seen a ghost.”
“What did he say?”
“He told me that if anything happened to him, I should never come back here.”
“And you never did?”
“Not until now.”
Marcus studied the gate. The chain hung loosely around one post, and the padlock had been cut. The metal edges were bright beneath the rust, suggesting that the damage was recent.
Someone had entered the property.
Elena noticed it too.
“We should assume we’re not the first people to arrive.”
“We should assume someone expects us,” Marcus said.
He turned off the engine, and the sudden silence seemed to amplify every sound outside. Wind moved through the pines. Somewhere near the lake, a bird called once and fell silent.
Marcus checked his phone. There was no signal.
Sloane noticed.
“Convenient.”
“Maybe the terrain blocks it,” Elena said.
“Maybe,” Marcus replied. “But I’m not going to rely on maybe.”
He took a small flashlight from the glove compartment and checked the batteries. Elena slipped the photograph into her bag. Sloane retrieved a compact first-aid kit from the back seat, then examined the road behind them.
They agreed that Elena would remain near the car while Marcus and Sloane approached the building. If anything went wrong, she would drive to the nearest town and contact the federal investigator through the independent number Mercer had provided.
“I don’t like staying behind,” Elena said.
“Neither do I,” Marcus replied. “But someone needs to be able to tell the truth if we don’t come back.”
She held his gaze.
“Then you make sure I never have to.”
Marcus wanted to promise her that he would return. He had made too many promises in his life without understanding how little control a person sometimes had over the outcome.
Instead, he nodded and stepped through the broken gate.
The gravel crunched beneath their shoes as they followed the driveway. The building grew larger with every step. Its exterior was covered in weathered wooden boards, and the chimney leaned slightly to one side. A small window near the entrance had been boarded up from the inside.
Marcus stopped several feet from the door.
There were fresh footprints in the dirt.
Two sets, perhaps three. One pair was large and deep, the impressions sharply defined by the damp ground. Another was narrower, with the heel marks suggesting someone had been walking quickly.
Sloane crouched beside them.
“Recent. Within the last few hours, judging by the edges.”
“Can you tell which direction they went?”
Sloane pointed toward the door.
“They came from the road and entered the building. I can’t see a clear trail leading back.”
Marcus lifted the flashlight. A thin line of light shone through the gap beneath the door.
Someone was inside.
He stepped closer and knocked once.
No answer.
He knocked again.
The light beneath the door disappeared.
Sloane moved to the side of the entrance. Marcus reached for the handle, expecting it to be locked.
It turned easily.
The door opened with a long, dry creak.
The smell struck them first: damp wood, old smoke, and something metallic beneath it. Marcus swept the flashlight across the room.
A workbench stood against the far wall. Shelves held rusted tools, empty jars, and small boxes covered in dust. A heavy canvas sheet had been thrown over a piece of equipment near the window. The room looked abandoned, but not untouched. A fresh cup of coffee sat on the workbench, its surface still faintly steaming.
Sloane whispered, “We’re not alone.”
Marcus moved farther inside.
The workshop was larger than it had appeared from outside. A narrow staircase led to a loft, and a second door stood behind a stack of wooden crates. On the wall hung a collection of hand tools, many of them old enough to have belonged to Marcus’s father.
He stopped in front of them.
His father had owned a hammer with a split handle, a set of narrow chisels, and a small hand plane with a brass adjustment screw. Marcus remembered watching him work with each of them. He remembered the way his father would turn a piece of wood over in his hands before cutting it, studying the grain as though the material were telling him something.
The same tools hung on the wall now.
“Marcus,” Sloane murmured.
He pointed toward the workbench.
A small wooden box sat beside the coffee cup. It was made of dark walnut, with a brass plate fixed to its lid.
M-714.
Marcus approached it slowly.
The brass plate he carried seemed suddenly heavier in his pocket.
He took it out and held it beside the plate on the box. The engraving matched exactly, except that the box’s plate contained only the letters and numbers. The date and final digits were missing.