Who Do You Trust Now? (A Disappearance Mystery Thriller Book 5) Read online

  Then, on the other side of the door, a Scottish silver birch sits, protectively in front of a window, either shading it from the sun, from curious onlookers or both. But her eyes are curious. An intrigue to know what hideousness lies inside the seemingly abandoned cottage seeps into Melody’s veins. The idea of a search and discovery of whom it belonged to, what era it might have been retrieved from and engaging in a journey of exploration bubbles up within her. it’s a thirst within her that she wants to quench.

  The cottage strangely fills Melody with nostalgia for the adventure books she used to read with her father; it is what she would picture in her storybooks as a child.

  She tiptoes around what appears to be a little trail with overgrown moss and shrubs, and unlocks the door.

  It opens.

  Once inside, the cottage is an antithesis to the eery exterior. Sure, the room is dull and empty, but when she reaches under a lamp next to her, flicks the light on, it comes to life. It’s warm, it’s inviting and most surprising of all, it’s clean. Her bag plops to the ground with relief, as she embarks on her exploration.

  A medium-length, tan, rectangular Persian rug with purple ombré-toned accents trails from under her bag at the entrance to a brown, leather chest, hoisting a tray and kettle like a small coffee table would. The rug is settled on shiny, wooden floors extending from the small sitting area decorated with a tan armchair and armor, to a breakfast nook and kitchen combo off to her side. She can tell it’s been recently redecorated to acquire a more modern appearance.

  She admires the sitting area. A cool breeze flows in from a brick fireplace, nestled behind the chest. Three logs are snuggled together, inside, just waiting for her to light them tonight. Above the armor, a thin, turquoise willow vine is painted on the walls, stretching from the sitting room, over the fireplace, dipping into the ceiling in places, all the way into the kitchen. It’s unique and she loves how it connects the exterior of the cottage with the interior.

  Following the vine, now walking towards the kitchen, Melody now sees the arch over the window and it makes sense. It’s shedding extra light into the breakfast nook and kitchen. The breakfast nook is painted gray with a turquoise table and chairs to complement. The place mats are a deep canary yellow weaved on gray bamboo strips. Beside them are mason jars for cups and a flower pot with dried, painted bark and pine cones. She can see herself sitting here with a good book and iced tea, staring into the gorgeous paintings spotted on the walls.

  This place is to die for, she says, caressing the marble countertop island, separating the kitchen from the breakfast nook, then she enters the kitchen. She notices glass storage jars filled with staple grains, a large, silver fridge and other new appliances all set up and running. Then she sees a hallway behind the kitchen, leading to two open doors, which she assumes must be the bathroom and bedroom.

  It’s perfect, Melody thinks to herself and she is now more confused. Why would someone shower her with all these amenities, when they could have left her for dead on the shore? If she didn’t know better she would say she was in paradise. Melody pulls out a stool from under the island and sits down, perplexed.

  Will they make an appearance at some point? She wonders.

  Melody has so many questions that she needs answers to, but for now, she needs her rest. After a good night’s rest, she can search the island for them. She locks the front door, grabs her clothes and goes to take a shower.

  Chapter 2

  Melody has spent two nights in the cottage. Already, she has gone to the back of the cottage a few times to gather more wood for the fireplace. She has not ventured out any further yet, concerned for what she might find, but she knows that she cannot wait here forever. Pretty soon she will have to search the island.

  It is now morning; she sits down to eat. Adorned on her plate is a freshly made omelette and toast with jam. She found more food in the fridge and it has been keeping her alive these past couple of days. It’s no comparison for the food Morrison would be cooking for her and the other guests at the inn, but it will do for now.

  She chuckles. In the two months she got to know Morrison, he has been more of a relative to her than her own father and Uncle Tobias. Carefully picking up a hot, floral cup from a saucer, then sipping on her tea, Melody, imagines why her uncle may have chosen her to go and find her father. Something tells her, answering this question correctly may unlock the exact detail she needs to find her father.

  Thinking on it doesn't bring ideas to her mind.

  The truth is, part of her feels like she is a sitting duck, waiting to be pounced on, and she really does not like that feeling of powerlessness. It’s all too suspicious: the strange girl showing up claiming to want to help her, the trip to the island, Nell speeding off…

  Wait, she reconsiders in the moment, was Nell speeding off because she saw someone coming? Did she panic at the sign of danger and leave quickly, trying to protect herself? It seems a bit far-fetched, but Melody recognizes it could be a possibility. And if it is, then it would mean Nell was not working with whomever knocked her out. She has a hard time believing her own theory, especially not knowing Nell very well yet. It all just happened so fast, she thinks, regretfully.

  Slowly, in an almost guided manner, her eyes wander from her nearly consumed cup of tea and plate of food on the table. They are delicious, but something is drawing her. She looks out of the arched window, thinking, “If I were my father, what would I do?”

  Then her eyes land on the willow vines, painted along the wall. They are strategically weaved among paintings on the wall. Melody glides out of her chair, staring directly at a vine near one of the paintings.

  The detail is slight, nearly inconspicuous, but Melody can tell it means something. As if the vine is speaking, Melody nods her head, following its message. The more she stares at the details in the vines, the more the message becomes clearer to her.

  She picks up the painting. It’s of a whimsical girl, standing in front of a beach, looking longingly into the water like someone will walk out soon and run into her arms. But Melody is not interested in the painting. It’s the vines. The vines have her enthralled and she cannot look away. She picks up the painting, gently, with her hand, peeks under it, then with another hand she pulls something out.

  It’s a note.

  It reads: I shouldn’t have come here. -D

  Melody’s eyes grow wide. My father was here? The revelation is both shocking and enlightening. She’s not even sure how to process it yet. She leans back against the armor. It’s his writing and it’s his signature, of this she is sure.

  How did he end up here? Did he also run into a Nell or someone like her? She wonders. It makes sense to her now why Rob said her father didn’t leave by plane or travel on McCorrie’s boat, the Blue Elm, to the mainland; he came to this island.

  Is he still here? Did he go back? She has questions about him and she needs answers.

  While she asks, something fantastic is happening inside Melody – she is gaining her confident tenacity that reveals she will not give up. “I need more clues,” she utters, her eyes searching around the room.

  She studies the vines again, to depict exactly how she found the last clue. The feathery branches all point and flow in the direction of the vine, except for one small section which uncharacteristically points its branches down towards the bottom left corner of the painting while the rest point up.

  The detail is infinitesimal, easy for an untrained eye to miss, but Melody, knowing how her father would feed her clues on their adventures before, and with her archeology background, has learnt to catch such minor clues.

  Like little feathers telling a story, the vines direct her where to look. She follows their intricate trail along the wall and there another painting sits. The trail says it’s the top of the painting, in the middle. She pulls down this painting without even checking what was painted on it. Her mind is focused, she can tell she is close. She was right to follow her gut and come here.

 
; A little note is slipped between the slits of the painting, it reads: They followed me here. I’m in danger. If I stay, they’ll find me. -D

  Melody clutches the note in her hands, trying to decipher what her father was trying to tell her. Who are they? And why was his life in danger? She questions.

  It would be so much easier if her father just left all the details in one place, but that would be unlike him, so she must dig.

  She lays the painting on the chest with blankets in it, then follows the trail. Even her Nancy Drew mysteries were not as thrilling as this to her soul. The sense of imminent danger and adventure all wrapped in one makes her blood rush. But now, there’s the added element of the mystery being about someone she personally knows and wants to find.

  The next painting is not hanging on the wall, it’s leaning against the fireplace, next to some porcelain figurines and candles. She locates the oddly painted, feathery branches and searches for the note, but there is no note. She looks again, and nothing. Rechecking the branches, she knows she is looking in the right place, but the note is not there.

  Melody steps back, looks around the fireplace, hoping the note didn’t fall among the logs, which she has been happily burning over the last couple of days.

  She lifts each figurine and looks under it, then she sees it, rolled up tightly like the others, behind the base of a candlestick.

  Anticipating what it will say next, Melody opens the note quickly. And it reads: I came to expose the truth and now, I must die for the truth. -D

  Melody is beginning to wonder if her father could be any more vague.

  That is when she opens the longest letter so far. Just a couple of paintings over, is another letter in her father’s handwriting. Either his penmanship got worse or he wrote this in a hurry, she thinks.

  She opens the letter and it reads:

  If you’re reading this, I’m sorry.

  I tried, but this time I was in way over my head. I came to the islands in search for the truth and to right a very unfortunate wrong. (I know, coming from me, that doesn’t sound like much, but it’s true.) I have stopped my dealings in the black market and I’m clean. But most people don’t know that. They think once a crook, always a crook. I hope you will believe me though. I want my family to be proud of me again.

  I missed seeing my child grow up and I’m hoping once I get back to the States, she’ll give me a second chance. I’m ready to own my wrongs and ask her to forgive me for not being there for her.

  Hopefully, I’ll make it back. But after what I found out, I expect I’ll be killed.

  Please, don’t bother trying to find out what happened. I’m not sharing it here either. I will not condemn whoever is reading this letter to my fate by divulging why I am to die.

  The letter ends with him quickly scribbling, “They are coming for me, now.”

  Melody sits, hushed outwardly and inwardly. She has nothing to say, she just feels. Part of her wants to be angry at those who came after her father and possibly took his life. The rest of her is saddened that she was robbed of her opportunity to know her transformed father.

  “Why didn’t you come home sooner, Father?” Melody voices her frustration. What if my father is really gone? She wonders. A thought back to the blood she saw on Tam’s barn door does not ease her pain. What if the same fate that was my father’s is now mine and I’m not going to see my family, Brad, Rebecca again? Maybe I should have listened and left the country when I had the chance.

  There is a wound in Melody’s heart, a vacancy now exists inside her that she is not sure can be filled again.

  Chapter 3

  Each night Melody is in the cottage, she sees a strange light on the island. It’s a hollow, static glow that faintly shimmers from among the trees in the distance. With much of her time spent on trying to find any more clues her father may have left her, she has not ventured out to look for the light until now.

  On the third night, she tries to follow it. It’s the only sign of life that she has seen on the island, so she is determined to learn who it belongs to.

  You could call it the hunter’s instinct; Melody is convinced after reading her father’s letter that if she doesn’t hunt down whoever’s on the island with her, they’ll hunt her instead.

  Her backpack is packed full of supplies; she has enough food, water and clothes to last a few days. She strapped it tightly on her back before leaving and even added a few essential tools for the hike.

  The woods are especially quiet tonight. There is a serenity about them that is inviting yet troubling, like they know what haunting lies ahead. It’s an insight Melody would kill to have right now. Her hope is that the few campouts she had as a girl scout will pay off now.

  The night is silent, waiting to see what will become of Melody. She is relieved the rain clouds she saw earlier, seem to have reverted from a certain downpour.

  Now she sees the stars radiating in the night with bright glimmers of hope. They span the midnight skies for miles and they are beautiful. She wonders if her father was taken during the day or by night. Wanting to know if the stars were witnesses to his departure, she asks, Did you see what happened to my father? But they do not respond.

  Since reading her father’s notes, her mind has been filled with dread, wondering what might have happened to him? What were his last words? She asks again, but the stars keep their opaque lips sealed.

  She continues to walk, shuffling her feet like a lost puppy in search of its parent. It’s amazing how you never know what you are missing until it is gone, she recognizes.

  Two months ago, she wouldn’t have cared to learn something happened to her father, but now, walking in his footsteps, meeting those he saw last and seeing the last clues he left for her, she feels connected to him. She can’t quite explain it, she just knows it’s a bond that tugs at her heart.

  A tree sways, she shines her light on it, but it’s just the wind. She breathes a sigh of relief. Next, she pushes past some trees, moving branches from her way. Up ahead, she can see the light is still on, she doesn’t take her eyes off it. Now, she ducks under another tree, which she can’t identify in the dark. Her bag gets caught at the top, she wiggles around, making the branches shake with her until she is loose.

  In the distance, the sound of a few birds and small animals shuffling in the trees catch Melody’s attention, but they do not alarm her. She is determined to keep that light in sight. With stubborn resolve, she continues forward.

  Then she hears them – they are the sound of light footsteps tapping near her. They are getting closer, she thinks. Darting her light towards the sound, she exposes an animal. A fox is standing, staring directly at her with beady eyes. It does not move and neither does she.

  Its beady eyes glare at her, but not threateningly. They just don’t move. The fox has a bright orange fur, gray ears and a white mouth and belly. If it wasn’t dark – a time when foxes are looking to eat – she would comment on how stunningly beautiful it looks.

  In silence, they stand, staring at each other. Melody feels a drop of rain fall on her forehead and trickle down her nose. It feels cool and a little ticklish, still staring at the fox, she does not wipe it off her nose. She thinks back to her food rations, Did I close my bag all the way? She’s heard of foxes coming close to humans when they smell food and eating out of people’s trash. They do not normally attack humans unless they feel threatened.

  Barely moving her hand, she casually lifts her arm from her side and checks the mouth of the bag for an opening. The fox watches, it does not come closer and Melody does not dare to agitate it.

  The bag is closed. She pulls her arm down in the same manner she lifted it up. Wondering if she should shout and scream like she would a cougar in America, Melody waits a while longer to see what the fox will do.

  The fox turns around like it has been warned off by some unseen protector and walks the other way. Melody breathes another sigh of relief. She waits, with her light still pointing where the fox went, then
when she feels it is far enough, she continues her journey.

  This time, she walks quickly, with the rain coming, she must move swiftly, trying to beat the rain. But the rain does not let up, it picks up into a small rainfall, then a downpour and a storm ensues. Covering her head and backpack with a raincoat, she progresses to a light jog.

  She hears thunder roaring, menacingly commanding her attention. The trees are swaying more heavily, making it harder to see in front of her. She puts one hand over her eyes to shield them and the other holds her raincoat, but it’s useless. Her clothes are wet and her face is even drenched.

  Taking long strides of walking and jogging again, the patter of her feet on the damp and nearly flooded ground reminds Melody of Deacon mansion and the drastic change in weather. She knows she should probably stop, but she is determined to make it to her destination, so she treks on.