Vintage camera equipment.Our code for immediate danger.
Some pieces missing, others damaged.Someone's been asking questions, getting close.
Urgent estate settlement.Legal trouble brewing.
Serious inquiries only.Drop everything and call now.
The phone screen suddenly feels too bright, the kitchen too quiet. My perfect morning shatters like glass hitting concrete, leaving me cold and shaking in Gabriel's borrowed shirt.
Something's wrong. Something's very, very wrong.
The warm contentment that filled me moments ago evaporates like morning mist, replaced by the familiar ice-cold dread that's been my constant companion for two years. My hands tremble as I reach for my phone, then stop.
The contact still needs to be untraceable. I must get to a landline.
I'm dressed and in my van before the rational part of my brain catches up. The keys shake in my hands as I start the engine, Gabriel's house growing smaller in my rearview mirror like a dream I'm being forced to wake up from.
The drive to Clearwater takes forty-five minutes of winding mountain roads, pine forests, and rangeland that should be beautiful but feels ominous now. Every mile stretches like an eternity, my imagination conjuring disasters with each curve in the road.
By the time I reach the abandoned Sinclair station on the outskirts of Clearwater, my heart is beating so hard I can taste metal. The pay phone looks like a relic from another era, grimy and probably crawling with germs, but it's the only secure line for miles.
I pump quarters into the slot with shaking hands and dial the number I memorized two years ago.
Matty picks up on the second ring. "Mathew Carter Speaking."
"It's me," I breathe into the receiver.
"Jesus, Lucinda." His voice is tight with worry. "I was hoping you'd see the post. We need to talk."
The relief of hearing his voice brings me to my knees. "What happened? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, but we've got a problem." He pauses, and I hear the sound of a door closing. "I got a call a few weeks ago. Sheriff Gabriel Maddox from Briarhaven, Montana."
The world tilts sideways.
My knees give out, and I have to lean against the grimy glass of the phone booth to keep from falling. The receiver suddenly weighs a thousand pounds in my hand.
"What did you just say?"
"Gabriel Maddox," Matty repeats, his voice grim. "Sheriff of Briarhaven. He tracked me down somehow, said he had some questions about Lucy Reid. I only heard the message he left on voice mail yesterday. I was out of the country without access to his phone. At first, I thought it was a mistake. But then it clicked. Lucy Reid. Lucinda Kensington-Reid."
The phone booth suddenly feels like a coffin, the Montana air too thin to breathe.
"Did he mention Uncle Richard? Or anyone else?"
"No. Nothing else. Just that it was urgent and left his contact”.
Matty pauses. "Lucinda, is he someone you trust?"
“Yes!” I say without hesitation.
"How can you be sure?"
Because I've seen him vulnerable and honest and completely stripped bare.
But then why investigate me? Why keep it secret?
"There's something else," Matty continues. "I've been ready to file the petition for months, just waiting for your word..."
