Chapter 4 - The Price of Silence
The sheriff's deputy treated the photograph as potential evidence and advised me not to remain at the farmhouse alone.
I wasn't frightened by the warning itself.
I was frightened by how precisely someone had found me.
June stayed until the evidence technician finished photographing the cellar.
Before she left, she squeezed my arm.
"Your grandfather wanted the truth known," she said.
"But he wanted you alive more."
I took the documents to a private attorney named Rebecca Shaw, recommended by an old Navy colleague.
Rebecca listened without interrupting and immediately separated our problems into three categories.
The farm title was a civil matter.
The suspected forgery could be a crime.
And whatever happened at Pier Nine required careful investigation before we accused anyone publicly.
"Promise me something," she said.
"Don't let your father's behavior turn you into a reckless witness."
I promised.
She obtained certified copies of the disputed deed and arranged to have the handwriting evaluated by an independent examiner.
We also learned that Harbor Crest had promised a substantial deposit against the farm's future transfer.
The deadline fell in eleven days.
My father was not simply greedy.
He was under pressure.
That afternoon, Martin Vale arrived at Rebecca's office with a settlement proposal.
He offered me three million dollars in exchange for my signature and permanent silence about family business records.
The document included a clause stating I had no knowledge of wrongdoing at Pier Nine.
"Why would I certify something I don't know?" I asked.
Vale folded his hands.
"Because money can spare all of you needless pain."
Rebecca pointed out that his own draft suggested he expected a criminal investigation.
His smile disappeared.
"You are making enemies neither of you understands."
After he left, Rebecca looked at me over her glasses.
"Keep that proposal. It's evidence of what they wanted you to sign."
I returned home near midnight.
The security light above my driveway had been broken.
Knox stood rigid inside the front door, a low growl vibrating in his chest.
I called the police before stepping into the house.
Nothing appeared stolen.
But somebody had gone through my desk.
My filing cabinet stood open.
And the Navy chest at the foot of my bed had been disturbed.
Lewis's folded flag remained there, untouched.
Beside it sat a scrap of paper printed with a single line.
THE FIRST LIE WAS ABOUT THE FIRE.
For a long time I studied the words.
Then I called Rebecca.
"What if someone inside that family wants us to keep digging?"
May you like
"Then," she replied, "we need to learn whether they're helping you or setting a trap."
