“I didn’t write this.”
“Then who is M?”
Nobody knew.
Scout scratched at the dock.
Then ran toward the woods.
We followed.
Half a mile uphill stood the ruins of an old hunting cabin Caleb and Michael had used when Caleb was fourteen.
Inside, beneath a loose floorboard, we found a map.
Three states circled.
Maine.
Vermont.
New Hampshire.
And one town underlined twice.
Ashford.
We drove overnight.
Ashford was tiny.
One grocery store.
One diner.
One church.
One veterinary office.
Scout barked the moment we reached Main Street.
He pulled toward the diner.
Inside, the waitress took one look at the photograph of Caleb and froze.
“That’s Daniel.”
My heart stopped.
“You know him?”
“He worked here.”
“When?”
“Two years ago.”
“For how long?”
“About four months.”
“Where did he go?”
She frowned.
“Thought he moved west.”
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