Chapter 6 - The Lake House
We reached Lake Azul just before sunset.
Margaret drove because my hands were shaking too badly.
A sheriff’s deputy met us at the gate after Margaret called ahead. I had expected resistance from David. I had not expected what we found.
The iron gate had a new keypad.
My code did not work.
Neither did Richard’s old one.
The deputy looked at me.
“You own this property?”
“Yes.”
Margaret handed him the deed.
He read it, then looked toward the house.
“Then somebody has a lot of explaining to do.”
A locksmith opened the gate.
The drive curved through cedar trees toward the water.
I almost did not recognize the place.
The old cream exterior had been painted charcoal gray. Richard’s workshop was gone. The rose garden had been ripped out for a fire pit. There were six outdoor cameras, two new storage sheds, and a metal sign near the dock that read MERCER LAKE RETREAT.
Mercer.
David’s last name.
Not mine.
Not Richard’s.
I got out of the car slowly.
The deputy said something to me, but I barely heard him.
I walked toward the front porch and saw the brass plaque beside the door.
PRIVATE PROPERTY — GUESTS ONLY.
For a second, grief rose so fast it felt like anger.
Richard had built that porch himself.
Every summer, he sat there with our grandchildren and taught them to play cards.
Now my son-in-law had turned our family history into a brand.
The new lock clicked open under the locksmith’s tool.
Inside, everything was staged like a magazine.
White furniture. Abstract art. Wine fridge. Designer throws.
Richard’s old photographs were gone.
I walked into the study.
That room stopped me cold.
The walls were empty except for a huge framed photo of David and Laura standing beside the lake.
On the desk sat a stack of booking contracts.
Margaret picked up the top one.
“Not just Christmas,” she said.
I looked over her shoulder.
There were bookings through May.
More than one hundred thousand dollars in future reservations.
Then the deputy opened a drawer.
Inside were copies of my driver’s license, my tax statements, and three pages covered with samples of my signature.
No one spoke.
I reached for the papers.
Underneath them was a black notebook.
David’s handwriting filled the first page.
At the top, he had written:
May you like
ASSETS ELENA WON’T NEED MUCH LONGER.
