Chapter 12 - The Suspended Hull
The beam of Clara’s phone flashlight swept across the damp, cluttered interior of the boathouse, finally coming to rest on a heavy canvas tarp hanging from the rotting wooden rafters near the back wall. Suspended directly beneath the tarp was the rusted, barnacle-covered hull of a small wooden sailboat, its bow resting just inches above the dark, stagnant water of the indoor slip.
Painted across the peeling transom in faded blue letters was a single name: The Edward.
"Oh, God," Elena whispered, stepping back and covering her mouth with her hands. "It’s his boat. Arthur wasn't lying about the lake."
Clara didn't flinch. She stepped past her sister, her high heels clicking sharply against the wooden dock inside the boathouse. She walked right up to the bow of the sunken vessel, her breath pluming in the cool evening air as the temperature inside the structure plummeted.
She reached out and grabbed the edge of the weathered canvas tarp, pulling it downward with all her might.
Rip!
The old fabric tore away, kicking up a thick cloud of dust and dried mildew. The flashlight beam illuminated the cockpit of the boat. Sitting inside the small cabin, strapped securely into the pilot’s seat with a heavy canvas safety harness, was a skeletal figure wearing a rotted mechanic’s jumpsuit.
Clara froze. She dropped her phone, but the screen remained wedged upright against a wooden cleat, casting an eerie greenish light upward onto the skeletal face.
The skull was intact. And jammed firmly into the breast pocket of the rotted jumpsuit was a heavy, waterproof metal briefcase, secured with a combination lock identical to the one in Arthur’s attic.
"He didn't sink the boat himself," Clara whispered, her voice dead and hollow. "Look at the hull, Elena. There’s a massive hole punched right through the starboard side. Someone rammed him."
Elena rushed forward, kneeling beside the hull and shining her own phone light toward the jagged splintered wood on the side of the boat.
"That wasn't a storm," Elena gasped, her voice trembling violently. "That was another boat. Someone rammed him on purpose."
Clara’s eyes narrowed into dark slits. She climbed up onto the gunwale of the boat, ignoring the danger of the rotting wood, and reached into the skeleton's breast pocket. Her fingers brushed against the cold metal of the briefcase. She pulled it free with a sharp tug.
Suddenly, a loud, heavy splash echoed from just outside the boathouse doors behind them.
Both sisters spun around, their hearts pounding in their throats. Standing in the open doorway, silhouetted against the dark, purple twilight, was a tall figure holding a heavy iron wrench.
It wasn't Arthur.
"I told you both to stay away from the lake," a deep, gravelly voice echoed from the shadows of the doorway.
May you like
Clara gasped as she recognized the voice instantly. It belonged to the town’s former police chief, retired for over a decade, and Arthur’s oldest business partner.
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