Chapter 4 - The Neighbor with the Coffee Can
Morning came to Hollow Pine Lake with a thin veil of gray mist hanging over the water. I hadn't slept a wink. I spent the night sitting at the kitchen table with my mother’s guest book, my pilot logbook, and three legal pads filled with contractor estimates I had pulled from Brooke’s banker's box.
Every single contractor estimate was addressed to *Brooke Mercer and Gavin Price.* The total proposed renovation budget was $240,000.
Where had she planned on getting that kind of cash? The divorce papers she left on my kitchen table specifically stated that she kept the house, both vehicles, and our joint savings. She assumed I would sign the cabin over to her in exchange for keeping the house. She had played a game of psychological chicken, fully expecting me to beg for my marriage and offer up the cabin as a sacrifice.
At 6:45 AM, the unmistakable rumble of an old diesel engine came down the gravel road.
I stood by the window and watched an ancient, faded-blue Ford F-150 pull into the drive. The door swung open with a screech of ungreased hinges, and Walt Miller stepped out.
Walt was seventy-two, a retired game warden who had lived on the north shore since before my parents built our cabin. He wore the same grease-stained flannel shirt and faded canvas cap he had worn for thirty years, and he walked with the rolling limp of a man whose knees had given out decades ago.
He walked up the porch steps, paused to look at the digital keypad on the front door, and spat a stream of chewing tobacco into the bushes. Then he raised a heavy, calloused fist and pounded three times.
I opened the door from the inside.
Walt didn't look surprised. He squinted at me beneath the brim of his cap, his pale blue eyes taking in my wrinkled pilot shirt and the dark circles under my eyes.
"Thought that was your truck," Walt said, his voice sounding like two dry pine boards rubbing together. "Saw the tail lights come down the road late last night. Wondered if you’d finally caught on."
"Caught on to what, Walt?" I asked quietly, pushing the screen door open. "Come on in. I’d offer you coffee, but the only thing in here is an espresso machine I don't know how to operate."
Walt gave a dry chuckle and held up a battered metal thermos. "Brought my own. Black as crankcase oil, the way your mom liked it."
He stepped inside, took off his cap, and set it on the kitchen counter. His eyes swept over the modern appliances, the protein tubs, and the architectural rendering sitting on the mantle. A deep scowl carved into his leathery forehead.
"Disgusting," Walt muttered. "She’s been bringing that slick-haired gym boy up here every weekend since the snow melted. Parading contractors through like she owned the timber."
"You saw them?"
"Saw 'em? Hard not to see 'em," Walt scoffed, unscrewing the lid of his thermos and pouring steaming coffee into the plastic cup. "Boy drives a black Range Rover with vanity plates. Parks it right in the sweetfern. Plays music with too much bass from the back of his truck while they drink wine on your mom's dock. Two weeks ago, they had three men in suits walking the property line with clipboards. Looked like bank men."
My stomach tightened. "Bank men?"
Walt nodded, his expression turning grave. "I walked over with my 12-gauge on my shoulder, asked 'em what in the hell they were doing on Helen’s land. That little wife of yours stepped right in front of 'em, puffed her chest out, and told me to mind my own business. Said she had power of attorney and was refinancing the acreage."
"She doesn't have power of attorney," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "The deed is in my name alone. My mother left it to me through a transfer-on-death deed before she passed. Brooke has zero legal claim to this dirt."
Walt took a slow sip of his coffee. Then he reached into his heavy canvas jacket and pulled out a worn, yellow Folgers coffee can with a plastic lid.
"Your mom was a good woman, Luke," Walt said softly. "When my wife had her stroke back in '14, Helen brought over soup every Tuesday for four months. She watched my back. I promised her I’d watch yours."
He set the coffee can on the table between us and popped the plastic lid off.
Inside wasn't coffee. It was packed with small, plastic SD memory cards, each labeled with dates written in blue permanent marker.
"Trail cams," Walt said. "I got four of 'em hidden in the hemlocks around your property line. Two covering the driveway, one aimed right at the dock, and one pointed at the front porch. I put 'em up three years ago when folks were stealing outboard motors off the bay. Never took 'em down."
I looked from the can to Walt's weathered face. "What’s on them?"
"Everything," Walt said flatly. "Every time that crossover came down the road. Every time that Range Rover pulled in. Dates, timestamps, high-resolution color photos, and thirty-second video clips. Including the afternoon that city paralegal girl—her cousin, right?—showed up with a notary stamp and a stack of papers."
I felt the blood drain from my face. "Dana was here?"
"Sat right out on that picnic table by the shore," Walt said, leaning forward. "May 12th. I watched through my spotting scope from my front porch. Brooke was signing papers, Dana was stamping 'em, and that gym boy was pouring champagne. They weren't just scheming, Luke. They were filing things."
I picked up one of the SD cards, feeling the hard plastic edges against my thumb. In the cockpit, when the master caution illuminates, you don't guess what system failed. You look at the black box.
Walt had just handed me the black box of my entire marriage.
"Walt," I said, looking him dead in the eye. "Do you have an internet connection at your cabin?"
May you like
Walt grinned, revealing a gap where his left bicuspid used to be. "Satellite. Slow as molasses in January, but it works. Let's go see what your wife’s been stamping."
***
