Page 16 of Dad Bods and Blizzards

Woody fumbles with the door handle then pauses before passing me. “Whatever you know, or think you know about us… please trust us.”

And they’re gone. I’m alone. My car is still at theAubergine Affair. What the hell was I thinking? The sound of their tires spinning on the dirt and gravel fades as they drive away. Moving to the window, I watch the taillights of their truck disappear around a bend in the driveway.

Wind whips the snow into a beautiful, sparkly scene that’s lost on me. The wind howls through the trees, making the cabin creak and groan. Cold air sneaks in the window frame. The draft cuts through my blanket. The glass panes rattle with each powerful gust.

Another oversized truck with a plow attached to the front sits in the driveway. I’m pretty sure it could push my Mazda right off the road and not even slow down. I’m sure it’s useful with their long driveway.

Then it hits me. I’m alone in their house. Not locked in a room, but still isolated. The next wave of the storm has left a fresh blanket of white on the road.

They said to make myself at home. I’ll do just that.

I spin around. The flames flicker tentatively in the fireplace in response to a downdraft, then settle into their warm glow.

Heading straight for the room they just met in, which happens to be the same room Griz took the files when we first arrived, I’m stymied by a locked door.

Taking a minute to explore the other rooms, I’m struck by the utter lack of personality, unless drab and boring fits. The absence of a history. It’s as if they only exist in the moment.

Their drawers and closets don’t even hold a single memory. If I trust my gut, these guys aren’t who they say they are. Does a childhood spent watchingScooby-Doogive me a skill set worthy of solving this mystery?

If only I’d chosen myMystery Machinekeychain today. Enough silliness.

Not wanting to waste time, I head back to the locked room and squat to inspect the lock. They clearly weren’t prepared for me. It’s a basic lock set that only requires a wire coat hanger poked into it to release the mechanism.

I’m guessing that the manufacturer’s privacy key is on top of the doorframe but I’m not tall enough to reach it.

Dropping my blanket, I head to the closest bedroom. I’m not surprised that the few coat hangers are wire. I straighten the hooked end on my way back to the lock, and in three seconds flat, I open the door.

The wooden walls, sans decorations, match the rest of the house. But it’s the wooden desk, complete with a computer and landline and a few neatly stacked files that surprise me. A short file cabinet sits at one end of the desk. Three laptops are charging on a side table.

This room has purpose.

The shades are drawn, unlike the rest of the house. They don’t want this room to be seen. They don’t want people snooping. And normally I wouldn’t, but I’m not sure who to trust, or why.

And suddenly I’ve channeled Velma fromScooby-Doo. Acting quickly, I grab the file that’s on top of the stack. Taking in the first page, I’m not sure what to think about the government letterhead.

Is it real?

Skimming what appears to be a report, I can’t make sense of the details. The dates and times don’t mean anything to me. What I’m guessing are codenames are also useless. But troubling.

I’m not reading the private ramblings of a mountain man. Even my untrained eye picks up on the secrecy of a government operation. And my father must be their target.

My hands shake as I flip through more pages. Surveillance notes. Coordinates. Maps. My throat tightens with each page.

Setting the first file down, I reach for the next one. This manila folder is thicker and heavier, loaded with secrets I’m not sure I want to know. But I’ve come this far.

The exterior of the file is blank except for a case number. I flip it open and freeze.

My house. An ickiness settles over me.

The wind slams against the cabin again. I jump, startled by the sound, and drop the file. I stop short of saying Velma’s “Jinkies!”

Papers scatter over the wood floor, coating it in white like the snowfall let itself in.

Pausing to gain my bearings, I determine that the continued sounds are ice pelting the windows.

I have no idea how I’ll get the papers back in order. I only know which one was on top. Gathering the sheets, I turn them all the same direction and note that there aren’t any page numbers before taking time to study the contents.

Another photo taken from a high angle puts my bedroom window dead center in the frame. The timestamp shows last week. Someone official was watching me? With a drone?

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