Chapter 4 - THE HOUSE WITH THE BLUE SHUTTERSHarbor House stood at the end of a narrow lane overlooking Narragansett Bay.
I hadn't seen it in seven years.
The blue shutters were faded.
The white porch railing needed paint.
But the house looked exactly as it had in my childhood memories.
The same brick walkway.
The same oak tree near the driveway.
The same wooden swing my father built when I was eleven.
I parked the Honda beneath the tree.
Lily leaned forward from the back seat.
“Mommy, is that Grandpa's house?”
I swallowed.
“Yes, sweetheart.”
She stared at it.
“It's beautiful.”
I smiled sadly.
“He loved it.”
“Can we go inside?”
I looked toward Rebecca.
She had arranged for us to inspect the property with permission from the current manager while its ownership remained under legal review.
“We can,” I said. “But we need to stay together.”
Lily nodded.
Rebecca's investigator, Daniel Price, stood beside the front door with a locksmith and a property representative.
We entered carefully.
The smell hit me immediately.
Salt air.
Old books.
Pine furniture.
And something faintly sweet that reminded me of Dad's aftershave.
I stopped in the hallway.
For a moment, I couldn't breathe.
My father used to stand right there whenever we arrived.
He'd spread his arms and say:
“Welcome home, Claire Bear.”
I closed my eyes.
I could almost hear him.
Lily slipped her hand into mine.
“Mommy?”
I looked down.
“Are you okay?”
I nodded through my tears.
“Just remembering.”
We walked through the living room.
The furniture had changed, but the fireplace was the same.
Above it hung a large painting of the ocean.
Dad bought it from a local artist when I was fourteen.
I remembered asking him why he paid so much for a painting of something we could already see through the window.
He laughed.
“Because sometimes you need to remember beauty when the windows are closed.”
I smiled at the memory.
Then Daniel approached.
“Claire, Rebecca said we're looking for a blue ledger?”
I nodded.
“That's what Evelyn told us.”
He looked around.
“Do you know where your father kept important papers?”
“The study.”
I led them down the hall.
The room was nearly empty.
Dad's enormous mahogany desk was gone.
The bookshelves remained, but most were bare.
A few old maps hung on the walls.
I walked toward the window.
My father used to sit there for hours.
I remembered him checking financial reports.
Making phone calls.
Writing notes.
Sometimes I'd sit on the carpet beside him and read.
He never told me to leave.
I ran my fingers along the windowsill.
Then I noticed something.
A small brass compass was embedded in the wood.
I stared.
“That's strange.”
Daniel approached.
“What?”
“This wasn't here before.”
He examined it.
The compass was fixed into a circular wooden plate.
Beneath it were the initials E.W.
My father's initials.
I touched the edge.
The plate shifted slightly.
My heart quickened.
“Daniel.”
He leaned closer.
“Don't move it yet.”
He photographed the fixture.
Then carefully examined the surrounding wood.
A hidden panel.
The compass wasn't decoration.
It was a handle.
After documenting it, Daniel gently lifted the panel.
A narrow compartment appeared beneath the windowsill.
Inside was a sealed metal box.
My breath caught.
“That's it.”
Daniel photographed the compartment before removing the box.
The metal was cold and covered in dust.
A small combination lock secured the lid.
Lily moved closer.
“Mommy, what's inside?”
“I don't know, sweetheart.”
She studied the lock.
Then looked at me.
“Maybe Grandpa used his favorite number.”
I smiled faintly.
“He had lots of favorite numbers.”
Lily tilted her head.
“What about my birthday?”
I looked at her.
Then at the lock.
Dad adored Lily.
Her birthday was October 21.
I tried the numbers.
1021.
The lock clicked.
I froze.
Daniel looked at me.
“Looks like she was right.”
Lily grinned.
“Grandpa always said I was his lucky girl.”
My throat tightened.
Daniel opened the box.
Inside was a blue leather ledger.
Several sealed envelopes.
A small digital recorder.
And a photograph.
The photograph showed my father standing beside a woman I didn't recognize.
She had short dark hair and wore a white medical coat.
I frowned.
“Who's that?”
Rebecca leaned closer.
The back of the photograph contained a handwritten name.
Dr. Amelia Warren.
I had never heard of her.
Daniel carefully photographed the contents.
Then he opened the ledger.
The first pages contained dates, account numbers, and transfer amounts.
Some entries were highlighted in red.
Others were circled.
My father's handwriting filled the margins.
I recognized his careful block letters.
Then Daniel turned to a page near the middle.
He stopped.
Rebecca leaned forward.
“What is it?”
Daniel pointed.
A transfer of $850,000.
Approved by Margaret Whitmore.
Received by Northstar Financial Services.
Another transfer.
$620,000.
Then another.
$410,000.
All within six months before my father's death.
I stared at the numbers.
More than a million dollars.
Gone.
Rebecca's expression grew serious.
“These entries may be highly significant, but we need to compare them with bank records.”
I nodded.
“Do you think Mom took all of it?”
“It's too early to say.”
Then Lily pointed toward the photograph.
“Mommy, who's that lady?”
I looked down.
“I'm not sure.”
She studied the woman's face.
“She's pretty.”
I smiled faintly.
“Yes.”
Then she asked:
“Why does Grandpa look sad?”
I looked again.
Dad was standing beside Dr. Warren.
His expression was tense.
His eyes were tired.
And he was holding an envelope.
Rebecca turned the photograph over.
Beneath the name was a date.
March 24.
Three days before Dad died.
I felt cold.
“What was he doing with a doctor three days before his death?”
Rebecca examined the writing.
“That's something we can investigate.”
Daniel opened another envelope.
Inside was a handwritten note.
If Nathaniel denies the meeting, ask Amelia.
I stared.
“What meeting?”
No one answered.
Then Daniel examined the digital recorder.
There was a label attached.
March 26 — 9:42 P.M.
The night before Dad died.
My heart hammered.
Rebecca looked at me.
“Claire, we should have this preserved and examined before playing it.”
I nodded.
But something inside me already knew.
That recorder held a piece of my father's final night.
And someone had spent seven years trying to keep us from finding it.
As we prepared to leave, Lily tugged my sleeve.
“Mommy?”
“Yes?”
She pointed toward a framed photograph hanging beside the study door.
It showed my parents on their wedding day.
But someone had scratched a word into the wooden frame.
I leaned closer.
One word.
Written in my father's handwriting.
“MARGARET.”
May you like
And beneath it, almost invisible, were four more words.
“SHE KNOWS ABOUT AMELIA.”
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