Page 19 of Hell and High Water

“Hmm. Yeah…” He lets it slide, but I can tell he has an idea. Let him stew on it for a while. His eyes track the page he’s on when he perks up. “Here’s something… looks like a shortlist of a series of properties bought up all at once in the 1940s. All along the Egret Ridge. Made the paper because it was sudden. A huge swath of land.”

“Sloppy,” I remark.

“Very. Except that they were pretty open about it. And they were bought up by Gander Walternon.”

“Why is that a big deal?”

“Because he’s my great-grandfather. On my mom’s side.”

I’m behind Tell, looking over the article in a heartbeat. Something else is on the edge of my memory, tickling at…

“Walternon and Segret!”

“Huh?”

“A merger of a massive logging conglomerate in the late 1800s. Walternon married Segret’s daughter.”

“And Segret is…”

“One of the founding families.”

“Oh! Could be something… Do I secretly own that land?”

“I intend to find out who does. At least it gives me some definitive landmarks to look through.”

“Good. Let me know what you find.”

“Where are you headed?” I look up, totally engrossed in a new research project.

“Speaking of my family reminded me that I haven't heard from dad, mom, or my sister in days. Maybe my dad will know something.”

“Just be careful what you tell him.”

“Hey, it’s me. I have never trusted that guy.” Tell winks, slipping out into the hallway.

I’m opening a new box of files when he pops back in. “Oh, I almost forgot. Go. See. Hellena.”

“You go see Hellena.”

“I’m going to.”

“Fine,” I snap back, my hackles rising. Why am I so fucked up about this? Shaking my head, I dive back into the charters and land deeds spread out on the table and on my computer screen.

“Who are you, Gander Walternon? And why did you never register a single one of these properties?”

All of them disappear a few years later. Every property along that ridge follows suit. Not all of the names match, but premium, overlooked property never sold. The real estate value on the land alone would be…

The pieces are too scattered, too many names to follow to find aliases. If I had a team of people, I might figure it out.

It’s getting late when I finally call it quits, standing to close up shop for the day.

A single folder flips off the desk, a nonsensical collection of copies of old article clippings.

And there, staring up at me, is the headline:

Sanctum Harbor Mogul Killed in Mysterious Accident.

And right below that…

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