Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 119597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 478(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 478(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
He hid this one in a stonewall behind the wine cellar for a reason.
Setting the blueprints aside, I search the other documents for locations, maps, points of reference, anything that may indicate where this cabin was built.
Instead, I find flight logs.
Meticulously recorded, they trace a pattern of movement for a Turbo Beaver, chronicling a series of journeys to and from Whittier. Each entry includes the tail number, checkpoint, hours of operation, and arrival and departure dates. No destination. No pilot information.
I flip to the end.
The log ceases twenty-five years ago. A few months before my parents’ deaths.
Whittier.
Blood roars in my ears.
My parents died in their private plane—a luxury Gulfstream—on their way home from Whittier. To this day, I don’t know why they visited that small port town or how the engine malfunctioned, causing the freak accident.
After an intense, unsuccessful investigation, I left it alone and moved on.
These flight logs, marked by the name Alvis Duncan, may be a key to unlocking the mystery of their visit to Whittier.
Alvis Duncan.
Never heard of him, but it shouldn’t be hard to track him down.
“Sirena.” I turn to her with a surge of excitement.
As she strolls forward, I’m quickly tempered by a stark realization.
This discovery, while significant, doesn’t draw us closer to Frankie. If anything, it opens a new avenue of inquiry. The off-grid cabin, the plans, the flights—they weave a narrative separate from her disappearance, a divergence from our primary goal.
Regardless, one thing is certain.
“We leave tomorrow.” I breeze past her, heading toward the stairs.
“Okay.” She follows, huffing. “Are you going to tell me what we found? Or where we’re going?”
My breath quickens, caught in indecision.
Alvis Duncan, a name never mentioned or documented in all my dealings with my father, merits exploration. But not at the expense of our current quest.
At the top of the stairs, I pause, staring at the documents in my hand. “These are blueprints for an off-grid cabin. Probably a safe house for my parents.”
“Another clue. This could be it, Monty. It could lead us to her.” She smiles. “Well done, us.”
“Well done, you.”
She doesn’t know that this discovery saved her job. It shows her determination, her ability to accomplish anything I demand.
I need her at my side, despite her infatuation with me.
“So where’s the cabin?” She angles around my arm, trying to peek at the blueprints. “Where are we going?”
“Sirena…” With a heavy heart, I acknowledge the need to compartmentalize our efforts. “This discovery, while momentous, cannot distract us from finding Frankie.”
“But I thought—”
“I didn’t know about the cabin’s existence until now. That means Frankie doesn’t know, either.”
The question of why these documents were hidden so deeply, of what my parents were involved in that necessitated such secrecy, compels me to hand over the flight logs.
“Alvis Duncan.” I point at the signature. “Find this man, see what he knows, but keep it separate. Our priority remains on my wife.”
“Understood.” She reads through the logs, fully absorbed, given her robotic response. “I’ll handle the investigation discreetly and find out what Alvis knows without losing focus on Frankie. You have my word.”
She flips through the pages. There must be a hundred flights listed over ten years.
As she reaches the end, a few slips of paper fall out, fluttering to the floor.
Two photographs.
One of them lands face up, and a pair of chilling gray eyes stare up at me.
Eyes I hoped never to see again.
I slam my shoe down on it. Too late.
“Who is that?” Sirena squats, tugging on the corner, trying to slide it into view. “Looks like Brad Pitt.”
A sickening wave of nausea swarms in my gut. I press my weight into my foot, holding the photo in place.
I burned every picture, document, and mention of Denver’s existence. I erased him from this house, from my memories, from the goddamn planet, yet there he is, glaring a hole through the bottom of my shoe.
“If you’re withholding information…” She releases her grip on the photo, staring up at me. “I can’t help you.”
“He has nothing to do with my wife.”
“Who is he?”
“My brother.”
“Why is this the first time I’m hearing about a brother?” Her eyebrow curves upward. “Any other siblings I don’t know about?”
“Just the one.”
“Where is he?”
“Dead.”
Leave it alone, Sirena. This is not a hole you want to go down.
Gone is the woman who wants to fuck me. The team leader of my investigative team plucks the second photo off the floor and straightens to her full height, glancing at it before meeting the full force of my glare.
“Give me the photo.” I hold out my hand.
She tucks it behind her back. “How did he die?”
“I don’t know.” I shake my hand with impatience.
“Liar.”
My nostrils pulse on a harsh exhale. “His death has no bearing on this investigation.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
She considers that. Then passes me the second photo. “Who is this woman?”