Chapter 5 - THE SAFE AT THE LAKE HOUSE
By dawn, I had slept less than an hour.
Adrian helped me find a civilian estate-litigation attorney, Rebecca Shaw, whose first instruction was to preserve every original and stop confronting Grant directly.
She spoke with the brisk precision of someone accustomed to wealthy people trying to bury poor choices beneath expensive paperwork.
"Your military rank won't decide this case," Rebecca said. "Documents will."
"Good," I answered. "I've spent my whole life dealing with people who think my rank isn't real."
Rebecca studied Dad's letter.
"He wrote that the truth was recorded twice. We need to identify the second record."
I remembered the lake house immediately.
Dad had spent summers there teaching me to swim and how to recognize storms by the smell of wind across the water.
Marlene sold it after his death, or so she said.
Rebecca discovered that the house had not been sold at all.
A holding company controlled by Grant had been paying its taxes for twenty years.
I felt sick when she showed me the property record.
"She told me we lost it to creditors."
"We haven't established ownership," Rebecca warned. "But you had better understand what the documents actually say."
Two days later, with her approval, I traveled to the lake with Nathan and a licensed investigator named Miguel Torres.
We did not break in.
The current property manager allowed us access after verifying Nathan's authorization as a company officer, though he made clear that authorization was disputed.
The familiar smell of pine met me at the front door.
The kitchen still held the blue tiles Dad had installed himself.
Someone had replaced the furniture, but the carved height marks on the pantry frame remained.
CLAIRE, AGE TEN.
CLAIRE, AGE ELEVEN.
CLAIRE, AGE TWELVE.
I traced the marks until I had to turn away.
Miguel inspected the attic while Nathan searched records in the office.
I went to Dad's old workshop.
Behind the workbench, a loose wooden panel moved when I pressed its lower corner.
Inside was a small fireproof safe.
My father had hidden it where he used to hide my birthday presents.
I knew the combination.
His birthday, my birthday, and the year he taught me to ride a bicycle.
The lock clicked.
Inside lay a yellowed ledger, a cassette tape, and a sealed letter addressed to a lawyer named Samuel Keene.
There was also a photograph of Dad standing beside Grant Caldwell at a construction site.
On its reverse, Dad had written five words.
May you like
IF I DISAPPEAR, ASK GRANT WHY.
