The first thing I did was plug the flash drive into the battered laptop a follower had mailed us two weeks earlier after one of my videos blew up. It took forever to boot. My nerves twitched with every second.
The drive held three folders.
SURVEY
LEDGER COPIES
IF SOMETHING HAPPENS
I opened the last one first.
There were six audio files and two videos.
The first audio file was dated nine days before Jake died.
I clicked play.
Static crackled. Then Jake’s voice filled the room.
“Testing. If this works, good. If not, then I’m apparently talking to a piece of junk for no reason.”
My knees went weak.
Noah looked up sharply. Lily froze.
I sat down hard in the nearest chair.
Jake cleared his throat on the recording. “If you’re hearing this, it means I didn’t get the chance to explain in person. Em, I’m sorry. Kids, if you’re old enough to understand this one day, none of this was because of you.”
I pressed a hand to my chest.
On the recording, papers rustled. Jake sounded tired. Not scared exactly. Furious, controlled, trying not to show it.
“Dad and Reed have been buying parcels around Black Ridge for months through dummy companies. They’re planning to flip water rights once the county declares emergency shortage. Aunt Ruth’s place is the center line. They thought nobody knew she’d signed the old mineral-and-water reservation before she died, but I found the survey. If they get the cabin parcel, they control the cleanest source on the ridge.”
There was a long silence, then Jake said something that made the room go cold.
“I think Dad had my brakes tampered with last week. Mechanic said the rear line looked cut, not worn. I didn’t tell Emily because I wanted proof first. That was stupid. If anything happens to me, start with Reed. Then look at Dad.”
Noah whispered, “What does tampered mean?”
I closed my eyes.
“It means someone messed with it,” I said.
“With Dad’s truck?”
“Yes.”
“On purpose?”
I couldn’t answer.
The recording ended with Jake saying my name softly, like he was trying to say more and couldn’t.
I played the second audio file.
Jake had recorded a conversation from farther away. Men’s voices. One was definitely Frank.
“You bury the lien and starve the access road,” Frank said. “Nobody touches that place.”
Another voice answered, smooth and oily. “Until the declaration comes through.”
“Jake’s getting nosy.”
“Then handle your son.”
The sound cut off.
Lily climbed into my lap without asking and pressed her face against my neck.
I could feel her heartbeat racing.
I held her tighter and clicked through the rest.
More copies of checks. Photos of documents. A scanned deed showing that Jake—not Frank—had been named contingent heir to Aunt Ruth’s cabin parcel, including “all associated water access and subterranean rights” if he made a claim within five years of her death.
He never had the chance.
Or maybe he’d been trying when he died.
The final video was dark and shaky, filmed inside what looked like a parking lot at night. Frank stood beside Garrison Reed, a man I recognized vaguely from county events and real estate billboards. Their faces were lit by the yellow glow of a streetlamp.
I turned the volume up.
Frank said, “You said scare him. Not kill him.”
Reed snapped, “Then maybe your boy should’ve stayed scared.”
The camera jerked and the clip ended.
Noah stared at the screen.
Lily started crying silently into my shirt.
