The Woods

The marina was a ghost town, the boats bobbing silently in the dark water like sleeping leviathans. I parked the motorcycle behind a dumpster, hidden from the road. The rain had stopped, but the air was heavy with mist and the smell of dead fish.

I walked down the pier, my footsteps echoing on the wet wood. I checked the slip numbers. *C-14. C-16.*

Dr. Thorne’s boat was at the end. *The Scalpel.* A grim joke for a surgeon.

It was a small fishing trawler, sturdy and unassuming. The cabin lights were off.

I climbed aboard. The deck was slippery. I moved toward the cabin door.

Locked.

I knocked. "Dr. Thorne?"

No answer.

I knocked harder. "Open up. I know you're in there."

Still nothing.

I tried the handle again. It rattled but held.

I looked around the deck. A gaff hook leaned against the railing.

I grabbed it. I raised it to smash the window.

The door opened.

Dr. Thorne stood there, wearing a thick wool sweater and holding a flare gun. He looked tired, his eyes shadowed.

"Put it down, Helen," he said.

I lowered the hook. "We need to leave. Now."

"I saw the news," he said. "The fire. The police say it's arson. They say you killed your husband."

"Richard is alive," I said. "He's the one who called them."

"And Arthur?"

"He's gone," I said, my voice cracking. "He died in the woods."

Dr. Thorne lowered the flare gun. He looked at me, really looked at me, seeing the soot, the blood, the desperation.

"Come inside," he said.

I stepped into the cabin. It was warm, smelling of coffee and diesel.

"Where's Maya?" he asked.

"Safe," I said. "For now. But I need to get to her. And I need money."

"You have money," he said, pointing to the duffel bag I was still clutching.

"Not enough," I said. "Not for what comes next."

I put the bag on the table.

"I need you to take me to these coordinates."

I wrote the numbers on a napkin. *41.5... 72.3.*

He looked at them.

"That's the cove," he said. "Dangerous water. Rocks. Riptides."

"There's a wreck there," I said. "The *Lady Sarah*."

He looked up at me. "Elizabeth's boat?"

"Yes."

"It's deep, Helen. Too deep for diving gear."

"We don't need to dive," I said. "We need to dredge."

"Dredge?" he laughed, a nervous sound. "With what? This is a fishing boat, not a salvage vessel."

"You have a winch," I said. "And a net."

"A net won't pull up a yacht."

"We're not pulling up the yacht," I said. "We're pulling up the cargo. It's in watertight containers. Floating inside the hull. If we disturb it... they'll rise."

"How do you know?"

"Arthur told me," I said. "It was his plan. His failsafe."

Dr. Thorne stared at the coordinates. He was a doctor, a man of science. But he was also a man who had kept a secret autopsy for thirty years. He knew the Vances. He knew their madness.

"If we do this," he said, "we're accomplices. Accessories after the fact."

"You're already an accessory," I said. "You helped me fake the abuse report."

He sighed. He rubbed his face.

"Fine," he said. "But we leave now. Before the sun comes up."

He went to the helm. He started the engine. The boat rumbled to life, vibrating under my feet.

We cast off.

As we moved out of the slip, I went to the back deck. I watched the shore recede, the lights of the town fading into the mist.

I was leaving everything behind. My home. My name. My life.

But I was gaining something else.

The truth.

And fifty million dollars.

We reached the cove an hour later. The water was choppy, grey waves slapping against the hull. The cliffs rose up on either side, jagged teeth against the sky.

"This is it," Dr. Thorne shouted over the engine. "We're over the target."

I looked at the depth sounder. *120 feet.*

"Drop the net," I said.

He engaged the winch. The heavy net splashed into the water, sinking fast.

We waited. The boat drifted, fighting the current.

Ten minutes. Twenty.

"Nothing," Dr. Thorne said. "It's empty."

"Drag it," I said. "Along the bottom."

He pushed the throttle. The boat lurched forward. The cable pulled taut, singing with tension.

We dragged for another ten minutes.

Then, a snag.

The boat shuddered. The winch groaned.

"We caught something," Dr. Thorne yelled.

"Pull it up!"

He hit the retract button. The winch screamed, the motor straining.

Slowly, agonizingly, the net rose.

I leaned over the railing, peering into the dark water.

A shape emerged. Rectangular. Heavy.

It wasn't a container.

It was a body.

Wrapped in chains.

The net broke the surface. The body swung in the air, dripping water.

It wasn't fresh. It was old. Skeletal.

But the clothes... the tattered remains of a suit... were familiar.

I knew that suit.

It was the one Julian had worn the night he disappeared.

But Julian was alive. I had just seen him.

So who was this?

I looked closer.

On the finger of the skeletal hand, a ring glinted. A heavy, gold signet ring.

The Vance crest.

But Julian didn't wear the crest. He hated it.

Only one person wore that ring.

I stared at the skull.

It wasn't Julian.

It was Arthur.

But Arthur was dead in the fire tower. I had left him there.

My mind spun, vertigo seizing me.

If this was Arthur...

Then who had I been talking to for the last month?

Who had I been feeding? Who had I been protecting?

The man in the wheelchair. The man with the dementia.

He wasn't Arthur Vance.

He was the brother.

The twin.

The one no one talked about.

*Thomas.*