Chapter 8 - The Empty Frame
The rain returned by evening, driving needles of water against the French doors of the north ridge lodge.
Inside, the kerosene lamp burned low, casting long, wavering shadows across the bare pine floors. The room was empty now—the rocking chair pushed back against the wall, the velvet-lined box gone, taken by the federal marshals as evidence along with the communication relays and the server override logs.
Only one thing remained.
Resting on the center of the wooden trestle table, directly beneath the circle of yellow lamplight, was a single framed photograph.
May you like
It was an old Polaroid, slightly faded at the edges. It showed Nathaniel and Grace sitting on the dock of a Maryland lake, both of them laughing, their faces splattered with lake water and summer sunlight. In the background, half-cut off by the edge of the lens, Elena’s hand rested on Nathaniel’s shoulder, her wedding ring catching the glare of the noon sun.
The glass of the frame was cracked diagonally from corner to corner, like a spiderweb caught in the frost.
