Luke didn't sleep. By sunrise, he had convinced himself that Maggie Mae had misunderstood what Miss Clara possessed.
By breakfast, he knew she hadn't.
And by the time the church bell rang nine o'clock, he was standing on Miss Clara's porch.
He knocked once. Nothing. He knocked again. "Miss Clara?" Still nothing.
Luke tried the door. It opened. He stepped inside.
The house smelled of lavender, old books, and the faint woodsmoke that seemed permanently embedded in the walls.
"Miss Clara?"
A floorboard creaked upstairs.
Luke looked toward the ceiling. "Is that you?"
No answer.
He climbed the stairs.
Halfway up, he noticed something that stopped him cold. The door to Miss Clara's bedroom stood open. And hanging from the doorknob was a strip of torn fabric.
Dark brown. The same color as the stranger's coat at the river. Luke pulled it free. His heart began beating faster.
He entered the bedroom. The bed was made. The curtains were open. But the room was empty. "Miss Clara?"
He checked the adjoining room. Nothing.
Then he saw the drawer. It had been pulled open. Inside were old letters, photographs, and a small wooden box.
The box was empty. Luke knew immediately what had been inside. The key.
He picked up one of the photographs. Miss Clara stood beside a younger woman Luke didn't recognize.
On the back was a date. October 1931. And beneath it, written in faded ink: At the landing, before everything changed.
Luke turned the photograph over again. Something about the woman beside Clara bothered him. He had seen that face before.
Not in Belle Rive. Not in one of his father's photographs. Somewhere else. He searched his memory. Then it came to him.
The photograph in the Garrison papers. The woman standing near the riverboat.
Luke's hand tightened around the picture. The woman was the same.
A knock sounded downstairs.
Luke froze. Someone was entering the house.
He slipped the photograph into his coat.
Then he heard a man's voice. "Miss Clara?"
Luke moved toward the bedroom door. The voice came again. "Clara, I know you're here."
Luke knew that voice. Not well. But enough. It was the stranger from the river.
Luke stepped into the hallway. "She's not here."
Silence.
Then footsteps. Slow. Coming toward the stairs.
Luke reached the top step. The stranger appeared below. He looked up. For one second, neither man moved.
Then the stranger smiled. Not warmly. Almost sadly. "You look just like your father."
Luke's blood ran cold. "Who are you?"
The man turned.
Luke lunged down the stairs.
But by the time he reached the front door, the stranger was gone.
Luke rushed outside. Nothing. Only an empty road.
And on the porch step lay a small object. A brass key.
Luke stared at it. He picked it up. There was something engraved on the metal.
Three letters.
E.M.C.
Luke closed his hand around it. He had just found the key. But he knew immediately that finding it had not been the point. Someone had left it for him.