Chapter 10
The heavy wooden door of the boathouse creaked open, releasing a damp smell of old timber, motor oil, and decaying reeds. Sunlight sliced through the cracked slats in the walls, illuminating dust motes dancing over an overturned canoe and rusted fishing gear. Detective Vance, a tall man with a silver crew cut and a worn leather jacket, stepped inside first, sweeping his flashlight beam across the rafters and the old workbench built into the far wall. "Keep your eyes open, folks. Arthur had keys to this property too, even if he didn't know about the locker," Vance cautioned quietly, drawing his sidearm just in case.
Clara held Leo close to her side as they navigated the uneven floorboards toward the back corner of the boathouse, where a heavy iron padlock secured a small floor compartment beneath the workbench. According to David’s hidden notes, the compartment was built into the concrete foundation during the original construction of the estate. Leo knelt down, examining the rusted padlock. "Dad always said the lock was a puzzle," Leo murmured, recalling summer afternoons spent tinkering with his father in the garage. "He said you don't force it; you align the pins."
Clara handed Leo the small, antique brass key they had recovered from Arthur’s safe. Leo slid the key into the heavy iron mechanism, closing his eyes as he listened for the subtle internal click of the tumblers. With a gentle, practiced twist, the lock sprang open with a sharp snap that echoed off the wooden walls. Detective Vance lowered his weapon, offering the boy an approving nod. "Good work, kid. You've got your father’s hands."
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Clara lifted the heavy iron-reinforced wooden hatch, revealing a dark, dry cavity lined with waterproof zinc sheeting. Resting inside was a single, weathered leather briefcase embossed with David Sterling’s initials in fading gold leaf. Clara reached down, lifting the heavy case out of the recess and placing it carefully on the workbench. The brass latches clicked open easily. Inside, protected by layers of heavy plastic wrap, lay a stack of thick paper journals, bank statements, and a sealed manila envelope labeled simply: For Clara and Leo—If Anything Happens.
Clara’s hands trembled as she lifted the sealed envelope and broke the wax seal. Inside was a handwritten letter from her late husband, dated just three days before his fatal car crash. As she read the opening lines, her breath caught in her throat. David hadn't died of a random mechanical failure on the mountain highway; his brakes had been deliberately compromised. And the signature authorizing the maintenance work wasn't David’s—it was Arthur’s. The investigation had suddenly shifted from attempted murder and fraud to something infinitely darker.
