Chapter 5 - Forty-Eight HoursThe man in the photograph was standing beside Patricia near the Georgian Bay shoreline.
He was tall.
Gray-haired.
Wearing a dark jacket.
Patricia was smiling.
That bothered me more than the photograph itself.
I had never seen her smile like that at a business meeting.
She looked relieved.
Almost happy.
Raymond zoomed in.
"There."
A building stood behind them.
Old.
Metal-roofed.
Almost hidden by trees.
"What is that?"
"We're finding out."
Two hours later, we were driving north.
I didn't tell Marcus.
I didn't tell Renata.
The entire trip was silent.
Finally, Raymond spoke.
"There's another thing."
"What?"
"The cottage."
"What about it?"
"Renata's company has already advertised it."
I almost laughed.
"She doesn't own it."
"That didn't stop her."
He handed me his phone.
There it was.
A luxury rental advertisement.
Photos of my cottage.
A fictional name.
A fictional rate.
"She put it online?"
"Three weeks ago."
"Before I agreed."
"Yes."
I stared at the screen.
Then I saw the booking calendar.
Almost every weekend for the next six months was marked unavailable.
Booked.
People had paid deposits.
For a house that was not hers.
"How much?"
"Potentially hundreds of thousands."
I understood.
Renata wasn't waiting for control.
She had assumed control.
There was a difference.
A dangerous one.
When we returned to Barrie that evening, Raymond said:
"Let her keep believing she has the upper hand."
"But she's already taken money."
"We'll deal with that legally."
I looked at my cottage.
"I'm done waiting."
Raymond nodded.
"Good."
At 7:40 the next morning, I sent Renata one message.
You have until noon to remove every listing using my property.
She replied within two minutes.
You have no idea what you're doing.
I wrote:
Neither do you.
Her next message came fifteen minutes later.
Forty-eight hours starts now.
I stared at it.
Then something unexpected happened.
Marcus called.
"Dad."
"Where are you?"
"At work."
"Did Renata send you anything?"
Silence.
"Marcus."
He whispered:
"She has the original map."
"What map?"
"The one Mom left."
My stomach dropped.
"Where?"
"I don't know."
"Why does she have it?"
"Because I gave it to her."
I closed my eyes.
"Why?"
"She said it would prove you were hiding money from us."
"And did it?"
"No."
"Then why?"
"I thought she was going to stop."
"Stop what?"
He took a breath.
"She was going to leave you alone."
I laughed bitterly.
"You actually believed that?"
"I wanted to."
That was the most honest thing he'd said in years.
Then his voice dropped.
"Dad."
"What?"
"There was something else in the file."
"What?"
"A photograph."
My heart stopped.
"What photograph?"
"Mom standing with the man."
"Grant?"
"No."
"Then who?"
Marcus hesitated.
"Grandpa."
Everything around me went still.
"That's impossible."
"I know."
"Your grandfather died years before that photo."
"I know."
"Then who was standing beside Mom?"
"I don't know."
Before I could respond, I heard someone in the background.
A woman's voice.
Renata.
Marcus whispered:
"I have to go."
The call ended.
At 10:12, I received an email.
From Renata.
Attached was a document.
The subject line read:
FINAL NOTICE
I opened it.
She was claiming that I had become "unable to safely manage the property."
She alleged financial instability.
Cognitive decline.
Risk of property damage.
And "family concerns regarding Walter Hayes's capacity."
I stared at the accusations.
They were absurd.
But absurd accusations can still be dangerous when repeated often enough.
At the bottom was one sentence:
Vacate the cottage within 48 hours.
I called Raymond.
"They've escalated."
"I know."
"What do we do?"
"We file."
"Today."
"Already done."
He sent me the court filing.
Then another document.
A notice regarding unauthorized use of my property.
Then another.
A demand for accounting of rental deposits.
Then one more.
A notice preserving every electronic communication between Renata and Marcus related to my assets.
I looked at the growing stack.
For the first time, I wasn't defending the cottage.
I was building a case.
At sunset, I stood on the dock.
A black SUV appeared at the end of the driveway.
Not Marcus's.
Not Renata's.
A man stepped out.
He was older.
Maybe seventy.
He looked directly at me.
Then he held up something.
A photograph.
He walked closer.
"Walter Hayes?"
"Yes."
"My name is Daniel Mercer."
I froze.
Mercer.
Grant Mercer.
"Are you related to Grant?"
He nodded.
"My brother."
"What do you want?"
He looked around.
Then lowered his voice.
"Your wife asked me to find you."
My heart stopped.
"When?"
"Before she died."
I stared at him.
"Why?"
Daniel handed me the photograph.
It was the same photograph I had received anonymously.
Except this one had writing on the back.
Patricia's handwriting.
Walter, trust Daniel. Not Marcus. Not Renata.
I looked up.
Daniel said:
"Your wife knew they would come for the property."
"Why?"
"Because she discovered what was underground."
I felt cold.
"What's underground?"
Daniel looked toward the lake.
Then back at me.
"Not gold."
"Then what?"
He whispered:
"Records."
"Records of what?"
"Money."
"Whose money?"
Daniel's expression darkened.
"Money that disappeared twenty years ago."
He reached into his jacket.
"And your father was one of the men who knew where it went."
I couldn't speak.
Daniel stepped closer.
"Your wife believed your family was being targeted because someone thinks you still have proof."
"Proof of what?"
He looked at my cottage.
Then he said:
"That four million dollars never disappeared."
A long silence followed.
"Where is it?"
Daniel looked me directly in the eyes.
"That's why Renata wants your land."
My phone buzzed.
A text from Raymond.
Walter, come inside. We need to talk.
I looked down.
Another message arrived.
Your cottage isn't the real target.
May you like
Then another.
You are.
