Page 34 of A Mile of Ocean

“At the risk of opening a can of worms,” Theo began, “why do you think your grandparents were reluctant to tell you the truth?”

“That’s a good question,” Tate reasoned. “But the answer is we just don’t know unless there’s something our grandmother is holding back because it might put her in a bad light. The Duchess Callum made our granddad promise he would never bring it up. That sounds like she’s holding all the power for a reason, none of it good.”

“Whatever comes to light, let’s be clear,” Trent decided. “Tate and I want you to dig as deep as you need to go to get to the truth. We want this man—”

“Or woman,” Tate interjected.

“Or woman, caught,” Trent finished. “We want this madness to stop.”

Later, inside the barn, as they saddled up their horses, Trent realized that their conversation with the cops had revealed a new layer. He understood now that the past had a long reach, its shadow stretching into the present with lethal intent. They were not merely hunting a killer; they were confronting the legacy of a vendetta that had festered for over two decades.

The untimely deaths of their parents, long buried beneath years of unanswered questions, were all he thought about now. As they prepared for the night ahead, the gravity of their task hit him hard.

As they rode out toward the property’s eastern edge, the evening air was cool and still, a deceptive calm that belied the danger lurking just beyond the frame of their vision. Trent’s grip tightened on his flashlight as he scanned the darkness, every muscle in his body coiled and ready. Tate moved silently beside him, her presence a steadying influence amid the tension.

Each shadow seemed to harbor a threat, each rustle in the bushes a potential danger. They moved with a heightened sense of awareness, knowing that the enemy they faced was cunning and desperate.

Trent couldn’t shake the feeling that time was running out as they reached the perimeter. The scars of the past were bleeding into the present, and the cost of revenge was measured in blood and loss. But even in the darkness, there was a flicker of hope—a determination to protect what was left of their family and to uncover the truth, no matter how painful it might be.

“When’s the last time you brought flowers to their graves?” Tate asked Trent, breaking the silence.

“Mother’s Day. What about you?”

“I go every Wednesday afternoon. Do you ever see Duchess there?”

“Now that I think about it, no.”

“Me either. You know what’s weird?”

“What?”

“The day we were headed off to college, I wanted to see them one last time before we left. But she insisted that we were running late, and I didn’t have time to go to the cemetery.”

“You’ve been thinking back about a lot of things, haven’t you?”

“I can’t stop thinking about her lack of emotion, Trent. It’s bugged me for years, but now that I know how they died and she refused to let Granddad talk about it, all those times she put me off are magnified. Everything clicks into place. Maybe because of her, I barely remember them. When I moved into my own place, I put their pictures on the gallery wall in the hallway. I try staring at them, so I don’t forget what they looked like.”

Trent blew out a breath. “Maybe she is keeping a big secret,” he suggested, the words packed with suspicion. “Something we’ve been blind to all these years.”

“Or ignored. That seems to be a family trait.” Tate’s voice softened, heavy with contemplation. “I’ve been running it over in my head. It’s like she’s afraid of what we might uncover.”

Trent absorbed the gravity of her words. “Is it possible she’s been protecting us from something or someone all this time? What if it’s bigger than we think?”

“All this speculation has me on edge.”

Trent shifted in the saddle. “Tate, do you believe in ghosts?”

“Sure. Don’t you?”

“Why? Have you encountered any?”

“Not lately.”

“Anyone specific?”

“What are you asking me, Trent?”

“Forget it.”

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