Chapter 7 - The Broken Seal
Anna froze, her hand hovering over the door handle. "Mom, what’s wrong? There’s nobody here."
"Look at the bottom step of the deck," I said, pointing toward the porch. "The mud. It hasn't rained in Roanoke since Tuesday. Someone was here within the last hour."
My daughter’s breath caught in her throat. The illusion of safety we had just bought back in Judge Bennett’s courtroom dissolved into thin air. Evelyn had lost in court, but Evelyn wasn't the only player in this game. If a Zurich account was tied to Frank’s final days, whoever was pulling the strings wasn't going to wait for a judge's final decree.
"Lock the doors and keep your phone ready," I instructed, sliding my hand into my leather purse and wrapping my fingers around the cold, heavy metal casing of my old encrypted satellite communicator. "If I flash the high beams twice, call Sheriff Vance directly. Not the local dispatcher—use the direct line."
"Mom, don't go out there alone!" Anna pleaded, tears welling in her eyes. "Let's just drive back to town!"
"We can't run every time someone leaves a footprint, Anna. This is our home now," I said, opening my door and stepping out into the crisp mountain air.
The forest surrounding the lake was dead silent, save for the rhythmic crickets and the gentle lapping of water against the wooden dock below. I kept my steps light, hugging the shadow of the station wagon before pivoting toward the side deck.
The glass sliding door wasn't just unlocked—it was slightly ajar, the white sheer curtain fluttering softly in the draft.
I slipped inside the kitchen, letting my eyes adjust to the dim interior light. The smell of old pine and lemon polish was overpowered by a faint, sharp scent of synthetic tobacco—the kind of expensive European cigars Evelyn’s chief attorney, Sterling, liked to smoke.
I stepped past the island counter, my eyes scanning the dark hallway leading to Frank’s old study.
The heavy mahogany door to the study, which I had locked the day after the funeral, stood wide open.
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And sitting behind Frank’s oak desk, casually going through the bottom locked drawer with a small locksmith's tension wrench, was a man in a tailored charcoal suit who certainly wasn't a lawyer.
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