Chapter 12 - A Dead Man's Voice
|
“Where Birdie will remember...” I repeated aloud, scanning the words over and over.
I stood up from the table, ignoring the dull ache in my back, and walked out the back door toward the snow-covered boathouse at the edge of the frozen lake. Samuel followed closely behind me, wrapping a heavy wool blanket around my shoulders.
The boathouse smelled of old cedar, motor oil, and lake dust.
I walked straight to the back corner, where an old, peeling blue wooden shelf stood against the exposed timber wall. When I was five years old, Caleb used to hide small wooden toys behind that shelf during our games of hide-and-seek.
“No peeking, Birdie,” his young voice echoed in my memory.
I reached behind the dusty wooden support beam. My fingers brushed against a cold metal object wrapped in oiled canvas.
I pulled it out.
Inside the canvas was a vintage brass nautical compass—the exact twin of the one Caleb wore around his neck—and a yellowed index card covered in handwritten coordinates.
Beneath the numbers was a final note:
Birdie,
If you are reading this, someone finally told you the truth.
Do not trust the official crash report.
Do not trust the Northstar board.
And remember this: Samuel Whitaker is not your uncle.
I turned around slowly, holding the note in my shaking hand as I stared at Samuel standing in the doorway of the boathouse.
“You’re not my uncle,” I whispered, the revelation cutting deeper than any physical pain. “You’re not even related to me.”
Samuel bowed his head, unable to meet my eyes.
“I was your father’s law school classmate,” Samuel confessed softly. “And your godfather. When your parents died, you were terrified, confused, and utterly alone. You kept calling me Uncle Samuel. I didn’t have the heart to correct you.”
Before I could respond, the burner phone Dana had provided me began to vibrate violently in my coat pocket.
An unknown number appeared on the screen.
I pressed answer and brought the phone to my ear.
“Hello?” I said, my voice trembling.
Static crackled across the line, followed by the sound of heavy, ragged breathing.
May you like
Then, a man’s voice—rough, deep, and worn by decades of hard living—spoke into my ear.
“Birdie?”
