Chapter 4 - THE CHILD'S DRAWING
The drive to Blackwood Ridge was a terrifying, silent blur of black SUVs cutting through the freezing rain.
I sat in the back of the armored vehicle next to Claire, who was wrapped in a thick wool blanket. She had spent fourteen months in darkness, yet her maternal instinct burned brighter than the headlights piercing the mountain storm.
"Why Marcus?" Claire whispered to Ethan, who sat in the front passenger seat. "He was your best man at our wedding."
"My father caught Marcus embezzling from the family trust a month before the warehouse fire," Ethan replied, his voice laced with bitter regret. "I thought my dad banished him. I thought Marcus came back to make amends. I never realized he murdered my father to cover his tracks."
The SUVs skidded to a halt at the base of the mountain road.
"The bridge is washed out," the security chief announced over the radio. "We have to hike the last mile through the timber trail."
We left the vehicles behind, pushing through the freezing mud and dense pine trees. The old hunting lodge loomed in the distance, a massive log cabin completely dark except for a single flickering light in the main parlor.
Ethan signaled his men to fan out. We approached the heavy oak back doors.
They were unlocked.
We slipped inside, the smell of dust and old wood filling my lungs. The parlor was empty. The massive stone fireplace was cold.
And standing in the center of the room, its glass door smashed to pieces, was the antique grandfather clock.
Ethan rushed forward. The hidden safe behind the pendulum had been ripped open.
It was entirely empty.
"He's gone," Ethan said, punching the wooden frame in frustration. "He got whatever was in here and took my son."
"No he didn't," I said.
I walked toward the stone hearth. Lying on the rug, illuminated by the beam of Ethan's flashlight, was a crumpled piece of paper.
I picked it up and smoothed it out.
It was a child's drawing. Done in bright blue crayon. It showed a tall, crooked tower with a light shining at the top, surrounded by jagged blue waves.
"This is Leo's," Claire gasped, taking the paper from my hands. "He always draws his letters backward. Look."
Written at the bottom, in a messy, childlike scrawl, were the words: DADDY HELP.
"A lighthouse," Ethan said, staring at the drawing. "The old coastal beacon at Miller's Point. It's thirty miles from here."
"He left us a trail," Claire sobbed, pressing the drawing to her chest.
"It's a trap," the security chief warned. "Marcus knows we'll follow the boy. He's luring you away from your territory, boss."
"I don't care," Ethan said, racking the slide of his pistol. "I'm bringing my son home."
I looked closer at the drawing in Claire's hands. There was a faint, greasy smudge on the back of the paper. I held it up to the flashlight.
It wasn't dirt. It was a thumbprint stamped in fresh, black ink.
"Mr. Blackwell," I said, a cold chill running down my spine. "Marcus left this drawing on purpose. Look at the ink."
Ethan stared at the smudge.
May you like
"That's a notary seal," Ethan whispered. "The documents my father hid in that safe... they were property deeds. Marcus isn't just trying to steal money. He's transferring ownership of the entire Blackwell estate to himself."
And he needed Ethan alive to sign the final papers.
