Chapter 6 - Salt Water and Skeletons
The salt spray off Gloucester Harbor was freezing, crusting the windshield of Croft’s battered Subaru with gray ice.
It was 4:15 AM. The storage marina looked like a graveyard of rusting corrugated steel and rotting docks. The sign above the gate read *Harbor Light Marine Storage*.
"Locker 412 is on the water side," Croft whispered, killing the headlights. He pulled a compact 9mm Glock from his holster, racked the slide, and handed it to me. "Know how to use this?"
"Julian taught me at the range," I said, feeling the reassuring, lethal weight of the metal. "Safety off?"
"Safety's off. Don't point it at anything you aren't prepared to destroy."
We moved through the swirling snow, the wind whipping off the black Atlantic water. Locker 412 was a green roll-up bay at the end of a deserted pier.
I punched the keypad: *8-8-4-1.*
A soft click echoed through the freezing air. Croft lifted the heavy iron door two feet off the ground, and we slid underneath.
Inside, the smell of damp paper and old wood hit me. There were no boats here. The unit was packed with heavy steel filing cabinets, antique furniture, and three oversized plastic lockboxes labeled *AV Estate – Private*.
Croft pulled a crowbar from his bag and popped the latch on the first box.
Inside were stacks of leather-bound daily planners dating back twenty-five years. Arthur Vance’s handwriting—meticulous, architectural, unwavering.
I flipped to the final volume: the year Arthur died.
October 14th. Two days before his death.
*“The discrepancies in the Zurich portfolio are not errors. Evelyn has been funneling capital into an account in the Cayman Islands under Megan’s maiden name. She thinks I don't know why. She thinks I haven't noticed Megan doesn't share my blood.”*
I stopped breathing. "Marcus. Look at this."
Croft leaned over my shoulder, reading the ink under his penlight. "Good God."
*"Megan isn't Arthur's daughter?"* I whispered.
"Read the next entry," Croft urged, his voice tight.
*“I confronted Evelyn tonight. She laughed. She told me if I went to the board, Julian would suffer the consequences. She doesn't know I altered the succession charter this morning. If anything happens to me, Julian gets the foundation, but only if he fathers an heir. Evelyn and her bastard daughter will get nothing but the dirt on my grave.”*
Suddenly, the steel door behind us rattled.
The heavy roll-up gate slammed shut with a thunderous *BANG*.
The mechanical lock turned from the outside.
Then came the hiss. A sharp, distinct smell of gasoline trickling under the rubber seal of the roll-up door.
A voice called out from the darkness outside—high, musical, and utterly psychotic.
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"You really shouldn't have dug through Daddy's things, Clara," Megan sang out. "You're going to burn just like he did."
***
