Chapter 7 - The Woman Who Knew My WifeThe next morning, I found a stranger waiting beside my fence.
An elderly woman.
Gray hair.
Brown coat.
She held a walking stick.
“You're Frank Miller.”
“Yes.”
“My name is Ruth Carter.”
I waited.
“I knew your wife.”
That sentence changed everything.
She looked toward the creek.
“She came to me nineteen years ago.”
“Why?”
“To ask about the water.”
I stared at her.
“What water?”
“The water beneath your ranch.”
My chest tightened.
Ruth stepped closer.
“Your wife discovered the reservoir before the developers did.”
“How?”
“Your father had old survey maps.”
I thought of the basement.
Ruth continued.
“She realized the water line extended far beyond your property.”
“How far?”
“Across the valley.”
“How much?”
She shook her head.
“Enough to make your two hundred acres worth hundreds of millions.”
I stared at her.
“Then why didn't she tell me?”
“She tried.”
I frowned.
“She left you a letter.”
“What letter?”
“One she asked me to keep.”
“Where is it?”
Ruth reached inside her coat.
She handed me a sealed envelope.
My name was written on it.
My wife's handwriting.
I couldn't open it.
Not immediately.
My fingers wouldn't move.
Finally, I tore the envelope.
The letter began:
Frank,
If you're reading this, I didn't tell you the truth.
I read the first page.
Then the second.
She had discovered that several companies had been illegally drilling beneath neighboring properties.
They wanted to connect to the aquifer without purchasing the rights.
She had confronted them.
They threatened her.
She kept quiet because she believed they would stop.
They didn't.
Then came the final paragraph.
I don't think they're trying to buy our ranch.
I think they want us to sell because ownership is the only thing standing between them and the water.
I read the sentence twice.
Then I reached the last line.
Protect the boys. Never sign anything from Raymond Kessler.
I lowered the paper.
Kessler.
The man who had offered me millions.
The man whose father had known my wife.
The man whose company was trying to control the valley.
I looked at Ruth.
“Why come now?”
“Because they killed Dale.”
I froze.
“What?”
“He wasn't killed in a car accident.”
“What happened?”
“He found out who was responsible.”
“Who?”
She looked toward the road.
Then whispered:
“Gerald Voss.”
County commissioner.
The smiling politician.
The man who had spent years promising to protect local landowners.
Ruth continued.
“Voss isn't working alone.”
“Who else?”
She looked at the house.
Then at my sons.
“Your wife trusted someone close to your family.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who?”
Ruth didn't answer.
Instead, a vehicle approached.
Sheriff Hayes got out.
He was holding a warrant.
“Frank.”
“What?”
“I need to search your barn.”
“Why?”
“Because someone used your property last night.”
“For what?”
“Illegal drilling equipment.”
I looked toward Ruth.
She had disappeared.
Hayes watched her leave.
“You know her?”
“Yes.”
“What did she tell you?”
I hesitated.
He sighed.
“Frank, I found something in my office.”
He held up a photograph.
It showed the county records room.
A man was standing beside the filing cabinets.
The image had been taken three nights earlier.
I recognized him.
Dale Mercer.
But Dale was supposedly dead.
Again.
Hayes looked at me.
“The man in this photograph was inside the courthouse after midnight.”
I felt the pieces coming together.
Two identities.
Dead men walking.
Fake documents.
Illegal drilling.
A hidden reservoir.
Then Hayes said something that made my blood run cold.
“There is one more problem.”
May you like
“What?”
“The judge who approved your emergency access hearing disappeared this morning.”
