Page 119 of The Lilac River

The office turned up nothing. No hidden drawers. No safe behind the painting. No files or folders marked “PROPERTY I STOLE FROM MY CHILDREN.”

I moved into the lounge. Gunner had already torn the place apart with couch cushions scattered, throw blankets tossed on the floor.

“You better remember how they were,” I said. “If we don’t put them back right, he’ll notice.”

Gunner held up his phone. “Took pictures. I’m not stupid.”

“Good thinking. I’m gonna hit the bathroom and then check the kitchen.”

He grunted, already halfway through disassembling the recliner. Highly unlikely it was hidden there, but then again we didn’t get our newly acquired criminal minds from our father.

I made my way down the hallway, unease gnawing at me again. This whole thing was feeling more and more like a long shot.

“Fucker,” I muttered, zipping up after doing my business. “Where the hell did you hide it?”

As I turned to wash my hands, my eye caught something, just the faintest glow behind the mahogany vanity. A thin slice of light coming from somewhere it shouldn’t.

My heart skipped.

“Gunner!” I yelled.

“What’s wrong? Got your dick caught or something?”

I dropped to my knees, squinting behind the vanity. The air was cooler, the light brighter now that I was closer.

Gunner came in, brows raised. “Is there something down there?”

“Yeah, I think so,” I whispered. “Hidden panel. Definitely.”

He crouched beside me, already pressing around the wood. “Thank God he’s a clean freak. Lying on the floor next to the john wasn’t on my bingo card.”

“Actually, smells clean for a guy who probably pees twenty times a night,” I joked

Then—

Click.

The panel popped open with a satisfying thunk.

“There we go,” Gunner said smugly.

“You clever little shit.”

Inside the hidden drawer was a chaotic jumble—flashlight still on, an old address book, loose photographs, a couple of manila folders, and one envelope sitting right on top.

No postage. No stamp. Just a name and address scrawled across the front in familiar handwriting.

Henry Jacobs.

My stomach twisted.

“That’s Mom’s handwriting,” I said softly.

Gunner blinked. “Think it’s a love letter? Maybe Henry’s our real dad?” he joked but the tension in his voice was real.

“No. Henry was her lawyer. College friend. Mom always trusted him.”

The envelope wasn’t sealed. My pulse pounded as I opened it.

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