Chapter 3 - The Bloodline LedgerMaren scrambled backward out of the dirt pit, her fingernails scraping against the rough stone foundation until she found the edge of the floor joist and hoisted herself up into the kitchen.
She landed hard on her knees, gasping for air as if she had been held underwater.
The wolves were no longer standing by the hole. They had moved to the front door, their bodies pressed flat against the wood, their hackles raised like wire brushes. Outside, the morning sun was high and bright, casting long, sharp shadows across the snow-covered yard.
And coming up the shoveled path was a red pickup truck.
Maren scrambled to her feet, clutching the old journal to her chest like a shield. She looked out the kitchen window. The truck belonged to Sheriff Miller, a heavy-set man who had known Thomas since they were boys, a man who had shaken her hand at the cemetery three months ago and told her if she ever needed anything—anything at all—just to call.
Except her phone was dead. The battery had finally given out during the night.
The truck door slammed shut. Heavy boots crunched across the frozen snow. A firm, authoritative knock rattled the front door.
Maren looked down at the gaping hole in her kitchen floor, at the torn rug, at the dark earth smeared across the floorboards. If Sheriff Miller stepped inside—if he saw the crawlspace, if he saw what Clara’s bundle looked like—she would be the prime suspect in a fifty-year-old murder, or worse, she would be locked away in an asylum trying to explain why four wild wolves had broken into her house to dig up a ghost.
“Maren?” Sheriff Miller’s voice boomed through the thick oak door, muffled by the frosted glass. “You in there, honey? Dispatch said your cell tower pinged off the highway repeater, but you didn't check in this morning. Just wanted to make sure you didn't freeze out here after that squall.”
The doorknob rattled.
The deadbolt was thrown, but the wood around the frame was old and split easily when the wind hit it; it wouldn't hold against a determined shoulder.
Maren ran to the front hallway, her boots sliding on the hardwood. She threw her weight against the door just as the sheriff pressed his shoulder against it from the outside.
“Sheriff!” she called out, her voice cracking, high and strained. “Don't—don't come in right now!”
The pressure on the door eased. Through the small glass pane at the top of the door, she saw the silhouette of the large man peering in, his breath pluming in the cold air.
“Maren? Open the door, let me look at you. You sound terrified. Did someone break in? Were there prowlers?”
“No,” she lied, her heart hammering against her ribs like a sledgehammer. “No, Sheriff. Just... pipe burst. Under the sink. Water everywhere. It’s a complete mess. I’m knee-deep in mud trying to fix the valve.”
A pause. Outside, the sheriff shifted his weight. Through the glass, she saw him glance down toward the porch floor where the snow had been disturbed.
“Maren, your porch looks like a kennel stepped all over it. You got dogs in there?”
“Stray dogs,” she said quickly, praying her voice wouldn't betray her. “From the woods. They came up during the storm. I let one in for a minute to feed it, and it tracked mud all over. I’m cleaning it up. I’ll call you when I’m done, okay? Thank you for checking on me, Arthur.”
Arthur Miller didn't answer right away. He was an old cop; he knew the ridge, he knew the Caldwell family history, and most importantly, he knew how things disappeared in these woods without a trace.
“You got a shovel in there, Maren?” he asked quietly.
“What?”
“Because if a pipe burst under the floor, you’re gonna need more than a mop. Call me if you need a proper crew. Don't go digging around the foundation yourself. This old stone work... it’s unstable. Houses out here have secrets you don't want to uncover.”
The double meaning in his voice hung in the frigid air between them.
“I’ll keep that in mind, Arthur,” she whispered.
“See you tomorrow, Maren. Keep your doors locked.”
The heavy crunch of boots faded down the path, followed by the metallic slam of the truck door and the deep, throaty roar of the engine turning over. The truck backed down the drive, its red taillights disappearing behind the veil of snow-laden pine trees.
Maren slid down the wall until she sat on the floor, the leather journal still clutched in her arms.
When she turned her head back toward the kitchen, she saw that the wolves had not moved from the doorway. And standing among them, staring down the hallway with dark, intelligent eyes, was the largest male.
In its jaws, it carried something small, metallic, and impossibly bright.
It dropped it onto the floorboards with a soft clink.
May you like
Maren crawled forward and picked it up. It was a heavy silver pocket watch, its crystal shattered, its hands frozen forever at 11:45. On the inside cover, engraved in delicate cursive script, were three initials: T.C.
Thomas Caldwell. Her husband’s pocket watch—the one he had lost the day before he died in his hunting cabin up on the ridge.
