Part 5
“Here’s the deed of trust, the finalized property survey, and the keys,” Vance said. He placed a thin manila folder on the table and slid it slowly across the smooth wood.
They were sitting in a busy downtown coffee shop. The escrow had formally closed, and the paperwork was signed. Andrew reached for the folder, but Vance stopped it, pressing his palm flat against the cardboard. The man wasn’t looking at him. His gaze was fixed on the chaotic street traffic beyond the plate-glass window, where a city bus was idling heavily.
“There’s one detail left. Better to put it out there now so we don’t have issues later,” Vance said. His voice was a flat, executive monotone. “My wife had a cat out there. She’s still on the property.”
Andrew went perfectly still. The paper coffee cup he had just lifted stalled halfway to his mouth.
“Still on the property?” Andrew repeated. It was the first week of March. “But you told me yesterday the county doesn’t plow those private access roads. How are you getting through the drifts to feed her?”
Vance stood up. He pulled his heavy wool overcoat on, meticulously adjusting the lapels.
“The last time I was out there was November,” he said.
“What?”
Vance finally looked at him. The exhaustion in the man’s eyes was real—a deep, hollow, defensive exhaustion. “Meredith had a massive stroke in August. She’s been in a medically induced coma for six months. I spend my days staring at heart monitors and fighting with hospital administrators over coverage limits. I do not have the bandwidth to worry about an animal right now. It’s your land now, Andrew. Handle it however you want.”
Vance pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his money clip, dropped it next to his untouched espresso, and walked out the door.
Andrew sat alone in the noise of the cafe. He stared at the heavy brass keys resting on top of the folder. He and his wife, Dana, had been looking for a lake cabin for years. This one had fallen into their laps through a mutual friend at a steep discount. Vance had explained he needed to liquidate assets to cover crushing medical debt. Up until sixty seconds ago, Andrew had felt profound sympathy for the man.
Now, his mind immediately ran the math. November. December. January with its brutal, single-digit freezes. February. Over three months alone, locked behind a fence, in the dead of winter.
Andrew grabbed the keys, shoved the folder into his backpack, and walked out. He got into his car, but he didn’t head home. He drove straight to an old rental storage garage he kept in the suburbs. Inside, surrounded by the smell of motor oil and dusty cardboard, he found what he was looking for: a pair of wide, wooden cross-country skis that had belonged to his late father. He dusted them off, checked the leather bindings, threw them into the back of his hatchback, and merged onto the highway heading north.
The interstate was clear, but the further he drove from the city limits, the higher the snowbanks rose on the shoulders. Andrew gripped the steering wheel tight enough to turn his knuckles white. He knew exactly what winter did to a stranded domestic animal. The odds of finding the cat alive were almost non-existent. But he couldn’t just drive home and sit down to dinner without checking.
He turned off the highway at the wooden sign for the lake community and immediately hit the brakes. The county plows had stopped at the intersection. Beyond the turnoff, the private road was a solid, unbroken expanse of white, blending seamlessly into the dense tree line.
Andrew killed the engine. He stepped out into the biting air, dropped the skis onto the snow, and strapped his winter boots into the bindings. The recent thaw and refreeze cycle had created a thick, solid crust of ice over the powder. He took his first step, the wood gliding smoothly over the surface without breaking through.
He moved quickly, driving his poles into the ice in a steady, punishing rhythm. The cold air burned the back of his throat. Within twenty minutes, the muscles in his lower back began to ache, and sweat gathered under his heavy coat, but he didn’t break his pace. After an hour of grueling physical labor, he crossed the open stretch and reached the first row of cabins.
The community looked like a graveyard. There were no tire tracks, no footprints, and no woodsmoke rising from the brick chimneys. There were only high fences and roofs buried under massive white drifts.
Andrew stopped, leaning heavily on his poles to catch his breath. Plumes of white vapor plumed from his mouth. He needed to find lot twenty-two, but most of the brass numbers on the gates were entirely covered by the snow.
A sharp flutter of movement caught his eye. A small sparrow darted between the bare, frozen branches of an old birch tree near the road. The bird hopped down to a lower branch, knocking a dusting of snow loose, before taking off again. Andrew followed its path and squinted at the metal gate beside the tree. Faintly visible beneath a layer of frost were the rusted numbers “22.”
He unclipped his boots from the skis. The snow against the fence was waist-deep. Ignoring the cold biting through his jeans, Andrew used his gloved hands to violently dig away the heavy chunks of ice, clearing just enough space to force the gate open. He squeezed through the gap and waded toward the brick cabin.
The porch was covered in a pristine, untouched layer of snow. There were no animal tracks. No signs of life.
He tried the front doorknob. Locked solid. He cupped his hands around his eyes to block the sun’s glare and pressed his face against the cold glass of the mudroom window, searching the interior shadows. It was completely empty.
Andrew slowly lowered his hands. His chest felt incredibly heavy.
“Where are you?” he whispered to the silent, frozen yard.