Chapter 4 - THE MAN HOLDING MY HUSBAND'S SECRETS
“Where did you get this photograph, Alice?”
My granddaughter looked up at me, confused by the sudden change in my voice.
“I took it.”
“With what?”
“My little camera. The one you got me for my birthday.”
I remembered.
It was a purple instant-print camera with a strap covered in stars.
Alice had been photographing everything since September.
The cat.
The kitchen cabinets.
Samuel's old fishing boat.
Apparently, she'd also photographed three men standing on our dock.
“Did they know you took this?”
She shook her head.
“I was on the porch. Daddy said they were doing grown-up business.”
“Did you hear anything they said?”
“Not much.”
I smiled gently.
“That's all right, sweetheart.”
She looked at the picture.
“Am I in trouble?”
I immediately pulled her onto my lap.
“Absolutely not. You haven't done anything wrong.”
“Mommy said taking pictures of people without asking is rude.”
“Sometimes it is. But you were taking pictures around your own home. You didn't know they were having a private conversation.”
She seemed satisfied.
Then she asked something that nearly broke my heart.
“Grandma, are you and Mommy going to stop being family?”
I had no answer ready.
So I gave her the one truth I could promise.
“Whatever happens between the grown-ups, you will always be my granddaughter. Nothing changes that.”
She hugged me tightly.
After breakfast, I called Daniel and told him about the photograph.
Then I asked Ethan to meet me in my study.
Brittany tried to follow him.
“No,” I said. “Just Ethan.”
She crossed her arms.
“Now you're turning him against me.”
“I don't need to turn anyone against you, Brittany. Your own actions are doing that.”
I closed the study door.
Ethan stood beside Samuel's old desk.
It was a beautiful oak desk, scratched along one side where Ethan had once crashed a toy truck into it.
Samuel never repaired the scratch.
He said some marks were worth keeping.
I put Alice's photograph in front of my son.
“Tell me about Walter Price.”
Ethan studied it.
“Where did you get this?”
“Answer the question.”
He sat down.
“Walter used to work in the county recorder's office. Harborstone hired him to review older property records.”
“Why was he on our dock?”
“Russell wanted him to identify the shoreline boundary.”
“And why was he holding your father's property binder?”
Ethan's expression changed.
I knew immediately.
He'd been the one who took it.
“Mom—”
“That binder belonged to your father. It held thirty years of records. Survey maps, agreements, correspondence. Why did you remove it from my study?”
“Because Russell said the older documents were necessary to clear the title.”
“Clear it for whom?”
Ethan stared at the desk.
“For the development.”
I sat across from him.
“Your father spent fourteen years fighting to preserve public access along this shoreline. He stood before county committees. He attended meetings nobody else wanted to attend. You watched him do it.”
“I know.”
“Then how could you help someone undo his work?”
My son looked up.
His eyes were red.
“Because I thought if I could get enough money, everything would stop falling apart.”
He explained that his employer had reduced his hours seven months earlier.
Their savings had already been damaged by Alice's emergency hospitalization the previous winter.
Brittany's mother, Donna, had suffered a stroke and needed care neither Medicare nor her limited savings fully covered.
Then Brittany's small consulting business lost its biggest client.
Bills accumulated.
Credit cards reached their limits.
A loan payment was missed.
Instead of telling me, they borrowed more.
And when Russell Vane offered Brittany forty-eight thousand dollars to help acquire the lake property, she'd accepted.
“I thought you'd sell eventually,” Ethan admitted.
“You thought I'd save you.”
He nodded.
“Just like you've always done.”
That hurt because it was partly true.
After Ethan's first business failed, Samuel and I had helped with his debts.
When he needed a down payment for his house, we'd provided it.
I had mistaken rescuing my son for teaching him how to stand.
“Where is the binder now?” I asked.
“Russell's office.”
“Did Walter read it?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
Ethan hesitated.
“He told Russell there was a problem with the shoreline rights.”
“What kind of problem?”
“I don't know. Russell ended the meeting.”
I studied him.
“Did you ask?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew I wasn't supposed to be there in the first place.”
For the first time that morning, he looked directly at me.
“I didn't know about the gun, Mom. I swear.”
I believed he was telling me what he knew.
But belief was no longer enough.
“Then you need to tell Detective Ortiz everything,” I said.
He nodded slowly.
“I will.”
“And Ethan?”
“Yes?”
“Protecting Brittany from consequences is not the same thing as protecting your family.”
He lowered his head.
“I think I'm finally understanding that.”
That afternoon, I drove to Walter Price's home.
I hadn't seen him in nearly four years.
He lived in a modest brick ranch about twenty minutes from the lake.
His wife, Ellen, had died the previous winter.
When he opened the door, I barely recognized him.
He'd lost weight.
His shoulders were stooped.
But his eyes were as sharp as ever.
“Margaret.”
“Walter.”
He looked past me toward the driveway.
“Did Russell send you?”
That was interesting.
“No.”
“Then come inside.”
His living room smelled of coffee and old books.
There were photographs of Ellen on almost every shelf.
He offered me a chair and sat opposite me.
“I heard about the development.”
“I imagine you did.”
He folded his hands.
“Samuel would have hated it.”
“Samuel would have fought it.”
Walter nodded.
“Yes. He would.”
I placed Alice's photograph between us.
“Why were you holding my husband's binder?”
Walter stared at it.
Then he sighed.
“Because Russell wanted me to find a way around the public shoreline agreement.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Then why does he still have the binder?”
Walter looked ashamed.
“He paid me to review it. I thought he wanted legitimate title research. By the time I realized what he intended, he'd already taken the originals.”
“Which originals?”
“Samuel's old survey notes and the signed shoreline consent agreement.”
I felt my pulse quicken.
“Consent for what?”
Walter hesitated.
Then he stood and walked to a bookshelf.
He removed a thick folder.
“I made working copies before Russell took the binder.”
He opened it carefully.
There were maps.
Old county correspondence.
A faded photograph of Samuel standing beside a group of neighbors.
And a document dated April 18, 2003.
Walter tapped the page.
“Samuel and several other owners entered a special shoreline agreement with the county. It protected public access, even if the surrounding properties changed hands.”
“I remember the meetings.”
“Then you remember why that agreement mattered.”
I nodded.
Before the agreement, developers had repeatedly attempted to close the footpath running beside our property.
Samuel believed ordinary families should be able to enjoy the lake without owning waterfront land.
“It wasn't just a walking path,” Walter said.
“The agreement also limited certain commercial uses along the shoreline.”
I studied the document.
“Then Harborstone can't simply close it.”
“They shouldn't be able to.”
“Shouldn't?”
Walter took off his glasses.
“Russell believes the restrictions can be removed if the property owners consent.”
“But I haven't consented.”
“He has paperwork saying otherwise.”
I thought of the forged power of attorney.
Walter continued.
“Margaret, your property is the largest remaining parcel in the project area. Without control of its shoreline frontage, their proposed marina layout doesn't work.”
“Then they should redesign it.”
He gave me a tired smile.
“Russell doesn't like being told to redesign anything.”
I looked at the county map.
Several neighboring properties were marked in red.
“What's this?”
“Owners who supposedly agreed to release their shoreline restrictions.”
I recognized the names.
The Millers.
The Carters.
June Patterson.
I stopped.
“June?”
Walter nodded.
“Her release was filed last month.”
“That can't be right.”
“Why?”
“Because June spent most of last month recovering from hip surgery at her daughter's house in Ohio.”
Walter stared at me.
I checked the date beside June's signature.
October 2.
My breath caught.
June hadn't returned home until October 7.
Walter leaned closer.
“Margaret, there's something else.”
He opened another page.
It was a financing summary, publicly disclosed as part of Harborstone's development application.
The company had represented that nearly all shoreline access restrictions had already been cleared.
Based on that representation, it was seeking approximately eighteen million dollars in development financing.
I looked again at the signatures.
Not one property.
Not one elderly homeowner.
An entire neighborhood.
Walter spoke quietly.
“If those releases are fraudulent, Margaret, the whole development financing could be built on false information.”
I stared at June's name.
Then at six other signatures.
And I realized Brittany hadn't simply tried to steal my property.
She had helped open the door to something much bigger.
Because at the bottom of the list was a name I recognized from Samuel's old fishing club.
May you like
FRANK MILLER — SIGNED OCTOBER 4.
Frank Miller had been dead for eleven months.
