Chapter 31 - The Unmarked Transom
The gale rose again just before midnight, blowing hard from the northeast, rattling the storm shutters on the seaside face of the cottage.
Arthur had gone to bed early, exhausted by an afternoon spent walking the shoreline, his breathing deep and even from the master bedroom. Daniel was asleep in the loft above the workshop, his work-lamp extinguished hours ago.
I sat alone at the kitchen table, sewing a canvas patch onto Daniel’s foul-weather bibs, the yellow light of the kerosene lamp pooling across the worn pine boards. The tea in my mug had long gone cold, but I couldn't bring myself to climb the stairs to sleep. A strange, prickly restlessness hung in the air—the kind of pressure that settles over the coast right before a rogue squall strips the lobster pots from their moorings.
A sharp, rhythmic knock sounded against the back kitchen door.
I froze, the needle caught halfway through the heavy canvas.
No one came up the cliff road at midnight. The road had been washed out since October, accessible only by four-wheel drive or tractor.
I set the canvas down without making a sound. My fingers moved toward the drawer beneath the flour bin, sliding the drawer open three inches. Inside lay the .38 revolver Jessica had brought to the wedding—cleaned, oiled, and fully loaded.
*Knock. Knock. Knock.*
Three distinct, spaced taps. Not the desperate banging of a stranded traveler, but the measured, deliberate signal of someone who knew exactly who was sitting inside.
I took the revolver, keeping it pressed flat against the seam of my wool skirt, and walked slowly across the linoleum to the heavy timber door. I didn't turn on the porch light. I leaned my forehead against the cold wood of the doorframe.
"Who’s there?" I demanded, keeping my voice low so as not to wake Arthur.
"Margaret," came a woman’s voice through the gale.
It wasn't Jessica. It wasn't Catherine Ross.
The voice was low, raspy, seasoned with the same maritime cadence that belonged to the down-east coves—and yet possessed of an accent that sounded decades older than anything spoken in Portland.
"Open the latch, Margaret," the woman said, her breath fogging against the frost-covered glass pane at the top of the door. "Julian didn't forge that second will. Julian didn't even know where the original bonds were buried."
My heart slammed against my ribs with sickening violence. My hand tightened on the grip of the .38.
"Who are you?" I whispered.
May you like
A thin, gloved hand pressed against the glass pane, holding a small silver locket up to the light—the twin to the one Arthur had worn around his neck until the day Daniel was christened.
"I’m Evelyn," the voice through the door said, cold and mocking in the howling wind. "And Arthur never told you what really happened in the recovery room at Saint Jude's."
