Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 135300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135300 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
“After breakfast, I want to check out the garden. Looks like decent weather today for another run at Gramps’ mystery,” I tell him, getting started on some waffles. “Not sure I’ll find anything, but I should at least check.”
Plus, focusing on our mystery will give me something to do besides worry about more burglars.
“Sounds good. I’ll give you a hand. I also promised the kids some time on the lake, and you’re welcome to join us,” Kane says.
“No, you guys go ahead.” I shake my head gently.
He doesn’t say it either, but we’re both thinking the same thing: distraction.
Before this day ends, I wonder if I’ll need them by the bushel.
I’m shocked and sad.
The garden is just as large as I remember, but way more overgrown, abandoned since PopPop’s death and left to go wild.
The only building is the old storage shed, and that’s where I head after breakfast.
Inside, it’s dark and dusty, the air stale with cobwebs splayed between windows.
When I was little, Gramps had people keeping this place nice and tidy, but like everything else, it’s been derelict for years.
There are ghostly gaps in the dust where Kane stepped, where he’s taken out tools and replaced them.
Weird.
For all his money, Gramps was pretty handy when he was younger. He could patch up the fence or hang pictures or paint, and he’d always come in here for his tools. Sometimes we’d catch him on lazy evenings pruning trees or weeding.
Having Kane show up with his money and fame with the same willingness to swing a hammer feels like a strange coincidence across time.
Like maybe this old house still attracts a certain kind of person.
Yeah, I need to get out of here before I go all sentimental.
One last scan to make sure there’s nothing out of place, and I shut the door, glancing at the lake.
Kane and the kids are out on the canoe, a distant shape far from shore.
It’s the kind of lazy boat ride to nowhere we’d do all the time, and their shrieks of laughter carry across the still water.
They’ve been out there for a while. I think they’ll be coming back for lunch soon.
Smiling, I turn back toward the house.
That’s when I remember what Mrs. Griffith said. I can picture it tucked in the trees and overgrown grass.
Bigger, grander gardens. A flat piece of land, and on it—
The gazebo.
A chill zings down my spine.
The grass catches in my legs as I walk forward, a few scattered branches tripping me up, and then I’m at the old stone base half-covered in dirt.
When I look closely, there are still a few black marks from the fire.
Just like she said.
An occasional chunk of damp, rotted wood from the gazebo itself, but it’s mostly been burned to nothing.
But there, right in the middle of where the gazebo once stood, my foot scrapes the unexpected. A little dip in the grass that has me digging, pulling out clumps by hand. And then—
An overgrown door straight from a dream.
It’s the kind of thing you’d find on an old storm shelter, metal and rusted, sunk into the ground and overgrown.
I swallow roughly.
This wasn’t on the property description. Holden Verity and Jackie Wilkes are detailed to a fault, but I’ve read the thing at least a dozen times and there was nothing about a hidden door.
Gramps never mentioned it either.
In fact, now that I think back, this little plot of land was fenced off when we were little. Just a few small wooden stakes, like something thrown up as an afterthought to keep rabbits away from a vegetable patch.
We always figured that’s all it was, but now…
What is this?
What was under the gazebo?
An old-timey storm shelter? A root cellar?
I crouch down, scraping away the loose plants growing around the sides. I must spend twenty minutes ripping up grass and weeds, tossing the debris to one side until the door looks clear.
The handle feels rusted shut.
When I try yanking the door open, it snaps off in my hand, staining my fingers brown.
“Jeez!” I yell, wrinkling my nose with disgust.
“What did you find?” Kane calls from the dock.
He must’ve brought the boat in while I was clearing the overgrowth.
Dan’s squirming his way off the canoe, not bothering to take off his life jacket in his enthusiasm.
“Not sure yet!” I call back. “Underground cellar, maybe? The door’s stuck.”
Kane grabs Dan’s arm and points him at the work shed, then motions Sophie to follow them.
They head over while I finish clearing a few more plants around the edge.
When they return, Kane has a crowbar, and Dan has a couple cans of WD-40.
“This dungeon was here the whole time? Crazy!” Dan whistles.
“It’s where the old gazebo used to be,” I explain. “I decided to walk through here and the ground felt funny. So I started digging.”
“You’ve never been down there before?” Kane asks, studying the dusty door.