Chapter 2 - THE DEAD MAN’s INK

The sun had barely breached the horizon, casting long, bleeding streaks of orange across the South Carolina sky.

I stood in the motel parking lot, the chilly morning air biting through my thin sweater. I had ushered the kids into Mark’s car.

“Take them to your sister’s house in Atlanta,” I told Mark, passing him two juice boxes through the driver’s window. “Do not answer your phone. Do not stop until you are across the state line. If Lorraine or the police call you, you tell them you haven't seen me.”

Mark looked terrified, gripping the steering wheel. “Claire, what are you going to do? If you go to that lake house, they’re going to lock you up.”

“Let them try,” I said softly.

I watched Mark’s taillights fade onto the highway, taking my heart and soul with him. Once they were out of sight, a terrifying, absolute calm washed over me.

For twenty-one years, I had played the role of the peacemaker. I had bitten my tongue at Thanksgiving dinners when Lorraine insulted my cooking. I had smiled when she criticized my clothes. I had even fought a deadly disease quietly, making sure my husband wasn't too inconvenienced by my dying.

Not anymore.

I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed a number I had memorized the night before.

“Robert Harris,” a gravelly voice answered on the third ring.

“Mr. Harris. It’s Claire Whitmore.”

A heavy pause. “Claire. I have been trying to reach Daniel all night. The situation has escalated—”

“I know about the emergency injunction,” I interrupted, my voice perfectly steady. “I know she’s trying to declare me incompetent. And I know she’s at the property right now with the developers.”

“Claire, listen to me carefully,” the old attorney said, his tone shifting into sharp, legal command. “Do not go there. If the local sheriff serves you with that paper, you lose your rights for 72 hours. We need to fight this in court on Monday.”

“By Monday, the house will be a pile of splinters,” I replied. “I’m not hiding.”

“Claire, you don't have the proof you need to stop them on-site! The trust document in the lockbox is a copy. It will not supersede a judge’s emergency order on the spot!”

I froze, my hand tight on the phone. “What do you mean it’s a copy?”

“William didn't trust paper,” Harris sighed. “He knew Lorraine would search the house. The document in the lockbox is legally binding, but without the original county clerk’s watermark, the sheriff won't know how to authenticate it. The real deed, the original notarized filing, is locked in a secure county dropbox at the courthouse.”

“Then let’s go get it!”

“We can’t,” Harris said, sounding incredibly tired. “The lockbox is electronic. It requires a six-digit code. William set it himself. He never told me the code. He said he hid it somewhere only the true owner would ever find it.”

My mind raced. A six-digit code.

Hidden where only the true owner would find it.

I closed my eyes, picturing the chaotic scene at the country club the night before. Lorraine’s purse spilling on the floor. Sarah throwing something onto the table.

The silver pocket watch.

The watch William had supposedly been buried with.

Mr. Harris had opened it, found the note, and passed the note to me. But I hadn't looked closely at the watch itself.

“Mr. Harris,” I breathed. “The pocket watch. When you opened it, did you see anything else?”

“Just the note, Claire.”

“No,” I insisted. “William was an engineer before he went to law school. He loved puzzles. If he hid the code, he hid it in plain sight.”

I hung up the phone.

I didn't have the watch. After the blowout at Mark’s garage, I had left everything behind.

I dialed Daniel’s number.

He answered on the first ring. “Claire! Oh my god, Claire, where are you? Are the kids okay?” He sounded wrecked, his voice cracking with desperation.

“The kids are safe,” I said coldly. “Do you have your father’s watch?”

“What? Yes. Yes, I took it from the country club. I have it.”

“Open the back casing,” I ordered. “Not the front face where the note was. Pry open the battery casing on the back.”

I heard the phone shuffle, followed by the metallic click of a pocket knife. A scrape. A pop.

A sharp intake of breath.

“Claire,” Daniel whispered. “There’s an engraving on the inside of the casing. It’s not words. It’s numbers.”

“Read them.”

“1-0-1-4-1-5.”

October 14, 2015.

I covered my mouth to muffle a sob.

It was the day I had been declared officially in remission. The day I beat the cancer. William had used the day I got my life back as the code to protect my children’s future.

“Daniel,” I said, my voice hardening into steel. “I am driving to the lake house. I need you to go to the county courthouse, meet Mr. Harris, use that code, and get the original deed.”

“Claire, they have the police there. Mom will have you arrested!”

“Get the deed, Daniel. If you ever loved me, if you want even a fraction of a chance to make up for the letter you wrote eleven years ago, you will get that deed and you will bring it to the lake house before they tear it down.”

I hung up before he could answer.

I threw my car into drive and sped toward the lake.

When I pulled onto the gravel driveway of the property an hour later, the sight made my blood boil.

Three massive yellow bulldozers were idling by the tree line. Two black luxury SUVs were parked near the porch.

And standing on the steps, holding a clipboard and flanked by a sheriff’s deputy, was Lorraine. She was smiling, pointing out the property lines to a man in an expensive suit.

I slammed my car into park and stepped out.

Lorraine saw me. Her smile vanished, replaced instantly by a look of victorious malice. She whispered something to the deputy, who rested his hand on his duty belt and stepped forward.

The developer in the suit turned, looking annoyed.

“Is there a problem, Lorraine?” the man asked.

Lorraine sighed theatrically. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Vance. This is the mentally ill daughter-in-law I warned you about. The one having the breakdown.”

The developer looked at me, frowning deeply.

“Are you Claire Whitmore?” the man asked.