Chapter 11 - The Lake House
The Hayes family had owned a small lake house for twenty years.
Jackson hadn’t visited since college.
Police moved fast.
Grant insisted I stay behind.
I refused.
“You’re not going inside,” he said.
“Fine.”
I lied.
The lake house stood forty minutes outside town at the end of a narrow gravel road.
Two patrol cars approached without lights.
Grant’s vehicle followed.
Jackson and I stayed behind them.
The front door was open.
That was wrong.
Police entered.
“Clear!”
“Kitchen clear!”
“Back room clear!”
No Natalie.
No Cassandra.
Then an officer found blood on a bathroom towel.
Not much.
But enough.
Behind the house, tire tracks led toward an old boat ramp.
Jackson looked terrified.
“Cass used to come here when she wanted to disappear.”
Grant turned.
“Disappear from what?”
“Our mother.”
That sentence stayed with me.
They had always seemed united.
Maybe I had been wrong.
Police searched the property.
Inside a bedroom closet, they found Natalie’s hospital bracelet.
Beside it was a prepaid phone.
The last outgoing message had been sent to one number.
Mine.
Natalie had been trying to contact me from here.
Grant found a note beneath the mattress.
Three words:
ASK CASS ABOUT DAD.
Jackson stared at it.
“Our father?”
“Maybe.”
His father, Charles Hayes, had died eight years earlier.
Heart failure.
At least that was what everyone believed.
I looked at Jackson.
“How old was Cassandra when he died?”
“Twenty-two.”
“And you?”
“Twenty-five.”
“What happened before he died?”
“Nothing.”
“Think.”
He paced.
Then stopped.
“They were fighting.”
“Who?”
“Dad and Mom.”
“About?”
“I don’t know.”
His face changed.
“Dad wanted to tell me something.”
My pulse quickened.
“What?”
“He called me the night before he died. Asked me to come over.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I had work.”
His voice cracked.
“He said it could wait.”
It never did.
An officer shouted from outside.
We ran toward the dock.
A woman was walking out of the woods.
Barefoot.
Hospital gown beneath a stolen jacket.
Natalie.
I rushed toward her.
She collapsed before reaching us.
Paramedics moved in.
Natalie grabbed my hand.
“Cassandra…”
“Where is she?”
“Gone.”
“Did she hurt you?”
Natalie nodded weakly.
“Why?”
“She wants the files.”
“What files?”
“Daniel’s.”
“They’re with police.”
Her eyes widened.
“No.”
“What?”
“The real files.”
My heart sank.
“There are more?”
She squeezed my hand.
“Daniel wasn’t investigating Lorraine.”
I leaned closer.
“He was investigating Charles.”
Jackson heard.
He went white.
May you like
Natalie whispered:
“Your father didn’t die from heart failure.”
