My daughter came to the funeral home to say goodbye to her mother.

The second day of detention dragged on with agonizing slowness. Katie spent the morning pacing the linoleum floors of her lawyer’s downtown office, arguing every legal nuance with Arthur Pendelton, a veteran attorney her mother had retained years prior for estate planning. Pendelton was methodical, cautious, and entirely unwilling to push forward without concrete forensic backing.

"Detective Miller is right, Katie," Pendelton said, adjusting his spectacles as he reviewed the ledger copies across his polished walnut desk. "If we push for an immediate murder indictment without airtight physical evidence, the defense will tear us apart during preliminary hearings. Julian Vance is slippery; he has spent the last decade building relationships with corporate judges and city councilmen."

"Then we find the physical evidence ourselves," Katie said stubbornly, standing by the large office window that overlooked the rain-slicked downtown plaza. "If Julian was at the lake house that night, he must have left something behind. He’s arrogant, but he’s not infallible."

Pendelton sighed, leaning back in his leather executive chair. "The lake house was processed by crime scene investigators three days ago. They found nothing out of the ordinary—just your mother’s boots by the back door and her vehicle in the driveway."

"They only searched inside the house and the immediate dock area," Katie countered, a sudden realization dawning on her. "They didn't search the old boathouse storage loft. My mother kept her personal camera equipment and old project logs up there—things Julian wouldn't want anyone to find because they documented the company's early, uncorrupted asset history."

Pendelton frowned. "That property is currently sealed under a police retention order pending probate settlement. Entering it without authorization could compromise any evidence the state does have."

"I’m not waiting for bureaucracy to move while he figures out a way to buy his way out of jail," Katie said, turning away from the window with absolute finality. "I'm going to the lake house."

Two hours later, Katie’s sedan turned off the main highway onto the narrow, tree-lined dirt road leading down to Blackwood Lake. The mist had cleared, replaced by a cold, heavy autumn wind that stripped the remaining amber leaves from the oaks and scattered them across the puddles. The lake house sat silently at the water's edge, its dark wood siding blending into the gloomy landscape like a shadow.

Parking her car behind a dense cluster of birch trees out of sight from the main drive, Katie grabbed a heavy-duty flashlight from her glove compartment and stepped out into the biting chill. Her boots crunched quietly on the gravel as she bypassed the front porch and headed straight down the sloping path toward the weathered wooden boathouse hanging out over the dark, choppy water.

The heavy padlock securing the boathouse door had already been clipped by investigators, leaving the iron latch dangling loose. Katie pushed the warped wooden door inward with a low, agonizing groan that seemed to echo across the empty lake.

Inside, the air smelled intensely of rotting wood, old gasoline, and damp lake silt. She clicked her flashlight on, sweeping the narrow beam across rows of dusty fishing rods, life jackets, and rusted tools. Toward the back of the structure, a steep, rickety wooden ladder led up into the dark storage loft overhead.