The man in the gray truck.
Brent moved fast—too fast for someone his age. He grabbed the revolver from the box, checked it like he’d done it countless times, and aimed at the window.
Mom looked up at him, horrified. “Don’t.”
He didn’t even glance at her. “He should’ve stayed buried with the rest of it.”
My skin went cold. “Who is he?”
Rachel stared at Brent, then at Mom, and I watched the realization hit her. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “You knew.”
Mom’s face collapsed—not in anger, but exhaustion, like someone who had spent decades holding something back.
“It was an accident,” she said weakly.
Brent laughed sharply. “No, Helen. It was a choice.”
He fired through the broken window.
A shot came back, splintering the cabinet above him. Brent ducked, swearing. In the chaos, I crawled to the fallen flashlight and shoved it into Rachel’s hands.
“Call 911,” I said.
She stared at me. “Leah—”
“Now.”
For once, she listened.
I grabbed the remaining papers and glanced at the photograph. It showed my grandmother Mara on this same porch, younger and harder than I remembered, with a tall teenage boy beside her. On the back, in faded ink, were the words: Eli, summer of ’92. Tell him when it’s safe.
The man outside shouted again. “Leah! Your grandmother told me if they ever came back for the land, they’d come ready to kill for it.”
Understanding hit me hard.
I looked at Mom. “Who is Eli?”
Her lips trembled. “My brother.”
I froze. “You said Grandma only had one child.”
“She told everyone that after he disappeared,” Mom whispered.
Brent turned on her with fury. “Shut up.”
But the truth was unraveling too fast.
