If you leave that stray cat in your house, Martha, you'll be smelling her dead owner till spring, the deputy told me on the porch.
The walk back to my cabin was a blur of numb feet and a burning rage. Eldon’s words, “You’re just a recluse, Martha,” scraped at something raw inside me. They didn’t know. They couldn’t know about Clara.
I reached my property, shivering violently. Barnaby met me at the door, rubbing his head against my leg, as if sensing my despair. He followed me inside, his presence a small, solid comfort in the overwhelming emptiness.
I stared at the dwindling pile of firewood, the empty pantry. Julian had cut off every external lifeline. I was truly alone.
But I wasn’t helpless. I still had the tin box, Clara’s ledger, and the adoption decree. And I had my mind, honed by decades of meticulous archival work.
A thought struck me, sudden and sharp. Clara’s cabin.
Deputy Croft had said she died of exposure. They’d found her slumped against her back door, frozen solid. But what if it wasn’t just an accident? What if Julian’s reach extended further than property deeds and smear campaigns?
Despite my aching feet and the bitter cold, I pulled on my boots again. I had to see for myself.
Clara’s cabin was only a quarter-mile through the woods, a familiar path I hadn’t taken in years. The snow was deep, undisturbed. The cabin sat silent and still, a ghost in the winter landscape.
I approached cautiously, scanning for any signs of recent activity. Nothing. The windows were frosted over, the porch piled high with snow.
I made my way to the back of the cabin, where Deputy Croft said she’d been found. The wooden porch was narrow, covered in a thick blanket of frozen snow. Her back door, painted a faded blue, was partially obscured.
I bent down, my breath pluming.
And there it was.
Wedged firmly into the metal latch of the door, a small, hand-carved piece of wood. A shim. Perfectly fitted, locking the door from the outside.
My blood ran cold.
Clara hadn’t just stumbled out and collapsed. She had been deliberately locked out. Trapped. During the blizzard that had swept through a few weeks ago, the one that had dropped temperatures to lethal levels.
Julian Kross didn’t just manipulate her tax records. He hadn’t just smeared my name. He had murdered my sister. He had watched her freeze to death, knowing she couldn’t get back inside.
The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. I sank to my knees in the snow, the icy sting on my skin barely registering. The cruelty of it, the cold-blooded premeditation, stole my breath.
He hadn’t intended for her to die on her property; he needed her gone for his land deal. But when she wouldn’t leave, when she wouldn’t cooperate, he had ensured her departure in the most brutal way possible.
The shim felt like a heavy, damning stone in my trembling fingers. This wasn’t just about land anymore. This was about justice for Clara.
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