Chapter 4 - The Stranger Who Knew HaroldThe man stepped into the moonlight.
He was perhaps fifty.
Dark jacket.
Gray at the temples.
A small scar above his left eyebrow.
I recognized him.
Not personally.
From the photograph.
Nathan Cole.
I backed away.
“How did you get in?”
He raised both hands.
“I’m not here to hurt you.”
“Then why are you here?”
“To stop you from opening that box.”
I looked down.
The metal box was still open.
“You’re too late.”
Nathan glanced at the letter in my hand.
“Did you read it?”
“Yes.”
His jaw tightened.
“Then Harold was right.”
“Right about what?”
“That Marcus would eventually choose the wrong side.”
My heart pounded.
“You know my son.”
“Better than you think.”
“How?”
“Because your son came to me three years ago.”
“For what?”
Nathan didn't answer.
I stepped closer.
“Where is Marcus?”
“I don't know.”
“Lauren?”
He shook his head.
“Probably at the house.”
“You broke into my house.”
“No.”
He looked at the floor.
“I was already inside.”
The statement made no sense.
“Inside where?”
“There's another entrance.”
My stomach tightened.
“Where?”
Nathan walked toward the fireplace.
He touched the wall.
A panel shifted.
I stared.
“There is no way.”
“There was never supposed to be.”
Behind the panel was a narrow opening.
A stairway.
Leading down.
“You're telling me my husband built a basement?”
Nathan nodded.
“Not exactly.”
We descended.
The air grew colder.
The stairs ended at a concrete corridor.
On the walls were shelves.
Boxes.
Files.
Hard drives.
Photographs.
I turned slowly.
“How long has this been here?”
“Years.”
“Why didn't I know?”
“Because Harold wanted it that way.”
I looked at Nathan.
“Tell me everything.”
He shook his head.
“You won't like it.”
“I didn't like being locked out of my own house either.”
Something resembling sadness crossed his face.
Then he walked to a metal cabinet.
He opened it.
Inside were bank statements.
Contracts.
Property maps.
Names.
Hundreds of pages.
I recognized Marcus’s signature.
I recognized Lauren’s.
Then I saw mine.
I froze.
“Why is my name here?”
Nathan pulled out a document.
“You signed this twelve years ago.”
I looked at it.
It was an authorization form from a bank.
I remembered nothing.
“This isn't my signature.”
Nathan studied it.
“Exactly.”
The room seemed to disappear around me.
“Someone forged my name.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Nathan pointed to another page.
I followed his finger.
A company name.
Wells Coastal Holdings.
My family name.
But I had never heard of it.
“What is this?”
Nathan replied quietly.
“The company that tried to buy your beach house.”
“When?”
“Before you even knew it was for sale.”
I stared at him.
“But Harold never put it on the market.”
“He knew.”
“What?”
“Exactly.”
Nathan handed me another file.
Inside was a copy of an email.
The subject line read:
PHASE TWO COMPLETE.
The sender was Lauren.
The recipient was someone named “R.”
The message contained only one sentence.
Patricia still believes the property is outside our plan.
I looked up.
My mouth went dry.
“Lauren wrote this?”
Nathan nodded.
“And R?”
“We don't know yet.”
“You're lying.”
“I wish I were.”
I looked at the date.
It was eight months ago.
Long before the alarm code was changed.
Long before Lauren told me she needed privacy.
This had been planned.
I turned another page.
A handwritten note from Harold was attached.
The danger isn't losing the house. The danger is who wants it and why.
I looked at Nathan.
“What is the house sitting on?”
He didn't answer.
“What is under my beach house?”
Nathan took a slow breath.
“Something worth much more than the property itself.”
“What?”
Before he could answer, we heard a sound above us.
A door slamming.
Nathan immediately shut the cabinet.
“Someone is here.”
“Marcus?”
“I don't know.”
The footsteps moved across the floor above.
Then stopped.
We heard a voice.
A woman's voice.
Lauren.
“Mom?”
Nathan looked at me.
“How does she know you're here?”
I couldn't answer.
Lauren called again.
“Patricia?”
Then another voice joined hers.
A man's voice.
Marcus.
“Mom, come upstairs.”
Nathan grabbed my arm.
“Don't.”
“Why?”
“Because that's not Marcus.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
He stared toward the ceiling.
“That voice…”
His face had gone pale.
“That's Nathan Cole's voice.”
I froze.
I turned toward the stairs.
May you like
If Nathan was standing beside me…
Then who was pretending to be him upstairs?
