Abandoning her suitcase and most of her groceries, she grabbed only her purse, the journal, and the metal box, shoving them into her oversized bag. The heavy iron poker stayed in her hand, a meager weapon against the unknown. She crept down the staircase, every sense screaming, expecting a hand to grab her from the shadows.
The great room was empty, the fire now a heap of glowing embers. She slid the heavy bolt on the front door and slipped out into the blizzard.
The wind immediately stole her breath, whipping stinging snow into her face. The world had been erased, reduced to a swirling, white chaos. Her Bentley was already a ghostly shape under a thick blanket of snow. It was useless. She’d never get it down the unplowed drive.
Half a mile through the woods. Liam’s words echoed in her mind. His place was her only chance. But could she trust him?
A flicker of light through the trees answered her. Not from the direction of his house, but from deeper in the forest. A single, swinging lantern, just like the journal had described.
Fear clamped around her throat. They were out here. Watching.
Driven by a desperate instinct, she plunged into the woods, away from the lantern, away from the road. The snow was knee-deep, sucking at her boots. Branches clawed at her coat and hair. She ran blindly, the poker held out before her like a blind woman’s cane, the bag banging against her hip.
She didn't know how long she stumbled through the whiteout, her lungs burning, her body numb with cold and fear. Just as her legs began to buckle, she saw it—a darker shape in the relentless white. A small, sturdy log cabin, smoke curling from its stone chimney.
Liam’s place.
She staggered onto the porch, collapsing against the door and pounding on it with the last of her strength.“Liam! It’s Elara! Please!”
The door swung open instantly. Liam stood there, his face a mask of shock. He pulled her inside, out of the storm, his hands firm on her shaking shoulders.
“Elara? What happened? You’re frozen.” His gaze dropped to the iron poker still clutched in her white-knuckled hand, then to the bag slung over her shoulder.“What did you do?”
She was shivering uncontrollably, tears of relief and terror mixing with the melting snow on her face.“There was someone in the house. I heard them. I found… I found his journal.” She fumbled in her bag and thrust the metal box at him.“And this. From a hidden compartment. Your ring… the photograph…”
Liam’s expression hardened as he looked at the box. He didn't deny it. He took it from her, his jaw tight.“You shouldn’t have gone up there.”
“Who vanished, Liam?” she demanded, her voice trembling.“The writer? Or did you make him vanish?”
He was silent for a long moment, his blue eyes stormy. Then he let out a heavy sigh, the weight of generations in the sound.
“His name was Alex Price,” Liam said, his voice low.“And he didn’t vanish. He’s buried in an unmarked grave out behind the old Holt cemetery.” He held up the box.“And what’s in here isn’t proof of a crime he discovered. It’s the reason he was killed.”
He looked at her, his gaze filled with a terrible, grim resolve.
“My family didn’t kill him, Elara. We’re trying to protect the secret that got him killed. And now, because you couldn’t leave it alone, they know you’ve found it too.” He glanced toward the window, into the blinding storm.“They’re out there. And they won’t let you leave this mountain alive.”
Chapter 5:
The Keeper of Secrets
The warmth of the cabin felt like a lie. The crackling fire in the stone hearth, the smell of coffee and pine—it was a sanctuary built on a graveyard. Elara stared at Liam, the man who had been her only lifeline, now the keeper of a deadly secret.
“Protect it?” she whispered, her voice raw.“You protect a secret that got a man murdered?”
“It’s not that simple.” Liam ran a hand over his face, the weariness etched deep. He placed the metal box on his rough-hewn kitchen table.“My family… we’re not criminals. We’re guardians. Have been since my great-great-grandfather built Havenwood.” He tapped the box.“This contains proof of a theft. A theft that funded this entire town over a century ago. The Holt fortune was built on a lie.”
He explained in low, urgent tones. His ancestor, the man in the photograph, had been a surveyor. He’d orchestrated the theft of a shipment of gold meant for a Union payroll during the Civil War, hiding it and falsifying claims to the land. Havenwood was built as a watchpost, a place to guard the secret and the remaining, hidden gold.
“The legend of‘cursed land’was a story we spread to keep people away,” Liam said, his gaze fixed on the storm outside.“But over the years, others have heard the rumors. Treasure hunters. Greedy men. Alex Price wasn’t just a writer looking for solitude. He was an investigative journalist, digging into local legends. He found the old ledgers. He pieced it together.”
“And someone killed him for it,” Elara finished, the pieces clicking into a horrifying picture.“Who?”
“I don’t know for sure,” Liam admitted, his frustration evident.“But they’re organized. They have resources. They knew he was getting close. They made it look like he just… walked away.” He looked at her, his eyes full of a pained apology.“When Roy rented Havenwood to you, I thought it was a mistake. A famous crime writer? It was like waving a red flag. I tried to scare you off. The locked gate… that was me. I was hoping you’d turn around.”
The admission should have made her angry. Instead, it made the danger feel terrifyingly real. He had tried to protect her in his own, misguided way.
“The lantern I saw in the woods…” she breathed.
