The clue came from the porch.
A storm rolled through the mountain on a cold October afternoon, the kind of rain that lashed sideways and rattled shutters loose. Mason had driven up to the cabin because he could not bear Charlotte that weekend, and because after meeting the girls there, the place no longer belonged solely to memory.
The wind had torn one section of porch skirting half away. When the rain passed, Mason went outside with a flashlight and toolbox. He knelt in damp leaves, pried loose a warped board, and found a rusted metal tin shoved deep into the crawlspace beneath the steps.
At first he assumed it was old hardware.
Inside was a folded dish towel, stiff with age and damp. Wrapped in it were three things:
A small silver locket.
A photograph.
And a letter in a woman’s trembling hand.
Mason read the first line and had to sit down on the wet porch.
If this is Mason Sterling, then I am sorry for leaving them this way.
The rest he read twice.
The writer’s name was Lena Brooks.
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