News of Wayne Finch’s accidental confession ripped through Oakhaven like a wildfire. The state tax audit office wasn’t playing games. County officials started asking pointed questions. Arthur Pendelton’s grand resort deal, once a sure thing, now hung by a thread.
He needed to destroy evidence. Fast.
I sat at my kitchen table, nursing a cup of tea, when the smell hit me. Not a cooking smell. Something acrid, burning wood.
I looked out the window, toward Eleanor’s property. A plume of dark smoke snaked into the clear Maine sky. It was coming from the old timber barn. Eleanor’s historic barn.
My breath hitched. Arthur. He was destroying the property markers, the old survey maps. Anything that could dispute his false claims to the land.
I grabbed my jacket, my heart hammering against my ribs. Eleanor had trusted me. I had to protect her memory, her land, even if it was just the physical remnants.
“Chloe, stay here!” I yelled, already out the door.
I ran across the fields, the dry grass crunching under my feet. The smoke grew thicker, the crackle of flames louder. The barn, a century-old structure of weathered wood, was a blazing inferno.
I could feel the heat on my face as I approached. The air smelled of char and burning pine.
Then I saw him. Arthur Pendelton. He stood near the edge of the fire, his face illuminated by the orange glow. He held a can, a gas can, in his hand.
He looked up, saw me. His eyes were wide with a desperate, furious light. He didn’t flee. He just stood there, watching the barn burn, waiting.
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