Chapter 14 - THE COTTAGE AT SHERBROOKEZ
The northern autumn had already stripped the leaves from the maples along the Canadian highway, leaving stark, grey branches reaching like skeletal fingers into a gloomy sky. The air was cold, smelling of damp soil and burning wood, as I drove my sedan through the rolling hills outside Sherbrooke, Quebec.
David Vance was in the passenger seat, a thick accordion folder of legal documents resting on his lap.
The address tied to the Sherbrooke credit union led us down a quiet, unpaved logging road that wound around the edges of Lake Magog. Tucked deep behind a grove of dense white pines sat a modest, stone-and-timber cottage. Smoke curled lazily from its stone chimney, and a rusted blue pickup truck from the late nineties was parked in the gravel driveway.
My heart hammered in my chest as I turned off the ignition. The engine’s quiet hum died away, leaving only the sound of wind whistling through the pines and the distant lap of lake water against the shore.
"Remember," David murmured, checking his phone. "We keep this quiet. No threats. We just present the financial receipts and ask for the truth."
We stepped out of the car, our boots crunching on the frost-dusted gravel. As we approached the wooden porch steps, the front door of the cottage creaked open.
A man stepped out onto the porch.
He was tall, bent slightly by age, with a thick beard as white as winter frost and sharp, piercing blue eyes that were instantly recognizable. He wore a heavy wool flannel shirt and work boots. In his right hand, he held a double-barreled hunting shotgun, held casually, but pointed downward toward the porch boards.
"You're on private land," the man said, speaking English with the faint, distinct accent of central New York. "Turn around and head back to the highway."
David took a slow step forward, raising both hands to show they were empty. "Thomas?"
The old man froze. The muscles in his jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as he stared at David’s face, scanning the family resemblance.
"David?" Thomas Vance whispered, his voice hoarse, like an instrument that hadn't been played in years. "What are you doing here?"
"I came with Nancy’s granddaughter," David said gently, gesturing toward me. "This is Emily. Carol’s daughter."
Thomas’s shotgun dipped a few inches. He stared at me, his gaze lingering on my face, searching for traces of his sister Nancy, or his niece Carol. A flicker of profound, unbearable sorrow passed across his weather-beaten face.
"Emily..." he murmured, his voice trembling. "Nancy... Nancy is really gone?"
"She passed away six months ago, Great-Uncle Thomas," I said softly, stepping onto the first porch step. "She buried her secrets with her, but she left us the key to find the truth. My mother lived as an outcast for twenty-five years because everyone believed she stole Frank's money. It's time to end the lies."
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Thomas looked down at his boots, letting out a long, shuddering sigh that turned to steam in the freezing air. He lowered the shotgun completely, resting the butt against the wooden floorboards.
"Carol didn't take that money," Thomas whispered, tears welling in his aged eyes. "I took it. Frank gave it to me himself... to buy my silence after I watched him murder a man."
