Page 137 of Into the Dark, We Go
"Hold on!" I cut in, panicked she might hang up. "You said Mary—or Erin—lived in Black Water? Please. This might be important."
"Is there something you’re not telling me, Miss Foster?"
"No... I’m just trying to understand. Lucas’s disappearance ruined my life."
"I can’t share that information." Another pause, like she was weighing what she could say. Then a sigh. "The estate now belongs to her surviving relatives. You may be able to find public records online, but I advise you to leave them alone and find other ways to rebuild your life."
"I didn’t know she had property in Black Water. I thought she moved years ago," I murmured, barely registering her warning. "So… does that mean it belongs to her son now?"
"I’ll repeat myself, Miss Foster: stay out of this. If you come across new information, contact me. Otherwise… good day."
And with that, the line went dead.
This couldn’t be right.
I sat in stunned silence,my heart racing like a jackhammer, trying to piece together the fragments. The puzzle we’d been trying to assemble and make sense of had been upside down all along.
However, without revealing much, the officer provided me with enough information to go on. It hadn’t dawned on usthat the land deep in the woods could be privately owned. We thought the private property signs were just there to scare off tourists.
That single detail changed everything. If Nick’s mother had property there, then he must have known about it. Why hadn’t he mentioned it?
What he told us was that his mother had suddenly gone to Black Water for reasons unknown to him and was murdered there.
I started thinking back. Nick often opted out of things, subtly redirecting us without ever making it obvious. He made it seem like it was my idea, or Mitch’s. He said his mother’s death wasn’t relevant and might get us off track. But did he really believe that, or was it just a convenient excuse?
He was intelligent, inquisitive, and always seeking the truth. He was the one who made most of the connections in the case. Or had he been guiding us the whole time? Nudging us in specific directions while keeping himself in the background? But why? What was he trying to achieve?
The grimoire.
The thought snapped me back to the present. Was I seriously entertaining the idea that Nick,my Nick, had orchestrated all of this just to get the damn book? That he’d planned it from the beginning? But we were the ones who’d shown up at his door. Besides, it was Mathilda who gave us the coordinates to the place.
That couldn’t be right. He couldn’t have known.
I got up and went upstairs to grab my laptop. It wasn’t hard to narrow down the approximate location of the clearing—we’d been there enough times. I searched for the parcel number and eventually found the deed and property records. My mind kept racing with a silent, steadyno, no, no. And then I saw it.
The owner’s name:
Nick Boyd.
My heart sank. Everything inside me dropped away.
I stormed into Nick’s office, hands trembling, fury and confusion flooding my body. I tore through the shelves, yanking out books and files, looking for anything—an explanation, something to prove it was all a mistake—but instead, I found a folder with a letter from a lawyer confirming the inheritance. Property transfer papers. There it was, in plain black and white. Dates. Signatures. Legal stamps.
I reached for my phone to call Nick, who was out running errands, but stopped myself. One part of me wanted to scream at him, burn the book, throw everything into the fireplace and watch it curl to ash. Another part whispered to stay quiet. To forget I ever found this. To go on like nothing happened. To stay here, in this calm and quiet life we’d built.
Or maybe this wasn’t a haven at all. Maybe it was a limbo. A place where you’re locked alone with your thoughts and fears, forever spinning in circles, simmering in your own self-loathing.
I had stayed with Lucas, even after the way he treated me. I convinced myself it was love, that I just needed to wait things out.
But that got me nowhere.
It was only a matter of time before the same—or worse—would happen with Nick.
By the timeNick got home, his entire office was in disarray. Amid the chaos of scattered books and papers I never bothered to pick up, the damning documents lay neatly arranged on the floor, like evidence at a crime scene.
He called out from downstairs. I didn’t respond. I was afraid that if I used my voice, I’d start screaming and wouldn’t stop until my vocal cords tore into a bloody mess.
Still calling my name, he came upstairs. When he reached the doorway and saw the mess, he stopped short. His eyes scanned the room, then locked onto the papers. Recognition flared in his expression, which then shifted to a sheepish, caught-in-the-act look—the kind of look a husband gets when he’s just been found messaging another woman. He took a step forward but froze when I raised a hand, warning him not to come any closer.
