“Pruitt and I ran a boat along that shore yesterday. There’s a cabin up there, half hidden in the pines. I figured Eleanor must’ve owned more than just the lakefront.”

After we hung up, I kept thinking about it. Eleanor recorded everything. Why would she leave out a cabin?

The next morning I drove an old utility cart along a rutted trail beyond Cedar Ridge. The path rose through pine and mountain laurel before opening onto a clearing high above the lake.

A small stone cabin stood beneath the trees, topped with a green metal roof — weathered, simple, and beautiful. The front door was unlocked.

Inside was a single large room with a stone fireplace. Shelves of books on birds, boats, and poetry. A ladder worn smooth leading to a sleeping loft. Dust drifting through shafts of morning light.

An envelope rested on the table.