Chapter 5 - What Was Buried Beneath the Lake HouseI returned to the lake house that night.
For the first time, I looked at it differently.
The stone fireplace.
The wooden floors.
The dock.
The trees.
The old boathouse.
Something was hidden there.
Something my grandfather had buried.
I called my mother again.
She answered immediately.
“Tell me everything.”
She cried for several seconds before speaking.
“Your grandfather owned a construction company.”
“I know.”
“He made a lot of money.”
“I know that too.”
“What you don't know is that he discovered your father's business partner was stealing from him.”
“Victor Hale.”
“Yes.”
My mother explained that twenty-five years earlier, my grandfather had uncovered a fraud scheme involving Victor and several investors.
He had collected evidence.
Bank statements.
Contracts.
Recordings.
Names.
Then he disappeared for several months.
When he returned, he told my father never to trust Victor.
My father ignored him.
Then my grandfather died.
Everyone assumed the evidence disappeared.
It hadn't.
My grandfather had hidden it.
Under the property that eventually became my lake house.
I stared at the floor.
“Where?”
My mother said:
“The old boathouse.”
I drove there with Daniel.
We searched for hours.
Finally, beneath a loose floorboard, we found a metal box.
Inside was a stack of papers.
Photographs.
A cassette tape.
And an old handwritten letter.
The letter was addressed to me.
Dear Arden,
If you're reading this, then you're old enough to understand why I kept certain things from the family.
My hands trembled.
Your father believes money makes people powerful. It doesn't. Information does.
I continued reading.
My grandfather had documented everything.
Victor's fraud.
My father's involvement.
Richard's later connections.
And one final transaction.
A massive insurance policy.
The beneficiary wasn't my father.
It was me.
My grandfather had established a trust in my name.
The lake property was part of it.
The house wasn't merely mine.
It had been protected for me.
And my father knew.
That's why he wanted it.
Not because it was worth several hundred thousand dollars.
Because the trust contained something else.
A financial account.
I looked at Daniel.
“How much?”
He checked the documents.
His eyes widened.
“Arden…”
“What?”
“The trust is currently worth approximately four point eight million dollars.”
I sat down.
Four point eight million.
My grandfather had left me a fortune.
And my family had spent years pretending I was barely surviving.
Then Daniel found another document.
A clause.
If anyone attempted to fraudulently transfer the property, the entire trust would automatically trigger a protective legal mechanism.
The people attempting the fraud would be exposed.
And the evidence would be released to federal investigators.
I looked at him.
“They didn't know about this.”
“No.”
“Then why was my father so confident?”
Daniel studied the documents.
“Maybe he knows part of it.”
My phone buzzed.
A text from my father.
Come to the house alone.
I showed Daniel.
“No.”
Another message.
If you bring the lawyer, you'll never learn what happened to your mother.
My blood ran cold.
“What does he mean?”
Daniel immediately called the police.
But before they arrived, my mother called.
She was whispering.
“Arden.”
“Mom?”
“Your father knows you found the box.”
“How?”
“He called me.”
“What did he say?”
“He said if you don't surrender the house, he'll release something that will destroy your reputation.”
I almost laughed.
“My reputation?”
“He recorded you.”
“The Thanksgiving conversation?”
“Yes.”
I remembered.
My father had asked me for money.
I had refused.
He had accused me of being selfish.
I had responded angrily.
But there was nothing criminal about it.
Then my mother whispered:
“He edited it.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“He made it sound like you threatened him.”
I stared at Daniel.
He understood immediately.
“This is extortion.”
My mother cried.
“I didn't know what to do.”
“Where are you?”
She gave me an address.
I drove there with Daniel and two police officers.
We found her sitting alone in a motel room.
She looked twenty years older.
She hugged me.
And whispered:
“I'm sorry.”
I didn't know what to say.
Then she gave me a flash drive.
“Your father gave this to me.”
“What is it?”
“The real recording.”
I plugged it into Daniel's laptop.
The footage played.
My father accused me of refusing to help him.
I said I couldn't keep giving him money.
Then he threatened to take my house.
I told him:
“If you ever try to steal from me, I'll make sure everyone knows.”
That was it.
No threat.
No violence.
No crime.
The edited recording removed everything my father had said first.
Daniel smiled.
“They're finished.”
But then the door behind us opened.
My brother stood there.
Keaton.
He looked at me.
Then at the police officers.
And said:
“You have no idea what Dad was really planning.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
He closed the door.
“I was supposed to help him take your house.”
I said nothing.
“I did.”
“Why?”
His eyes filled with tears.
“Because he told me Mom was dying.”
I froze.
“What?”
Keaton looked down.
“She isn't sick.”
My mother began sobbing.
And suddenly I understood.
My father had lied to my brother too.
The entire family had been manipulated.
But Keaton still had blood on his hands.
He had helped forge my signature.
And he knew exactly where the evidence was.
Then he whispered:
“There's one more thing.”
“What?”
“Dad has already gone to the house.”
My heart stopped.
“Why?”
May you like
Keaton looked at me.
“He's looking for the second box.”
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