Chapter 7: What the Water Tried to Hide
The recovery specialist looked at the deputy and shook his head.
“We can't pull the vehicle straight up.””
I stood beside Ethan near the boathouse, still wearing the simple clothes I'd changed into after leaving my wedding dress behind.
The lake had darkened with the approaching evening. Portable lights illuminated the dock, the crane, and the faces of the people who had gathered to watch the recovery operation.
My grandfather's Mustang was somewhere below us.
So was the metal case.
And according to the message on Dylan's phone, my father had wanted both the car and whatever was inside it out of my reach before Ethan and I left for our honeymoon.
The recovery specialist pointed toward the water.
“The vehicle appears to have settled against part of the old dock structure. We need to inspect the position before attaching the recovery equipment. If we pull at the wrong angle, we could cause additional damage.””
“Can you recover it tonight?”” Ethan asked.
“Possibly. But we're not going to rush it.””
I appreciated that answer more than I could explain.
For six years, I'd rushed home from work to spend another hour with the Mustang. I'd rushed through meals to finish a repair. I'd rushed to find replacement parts before a weekend when I could work on the engine.
Now the car needed patience.
The same patience Grandpa had taught me.
I clasped my hands together and watched the specialists prepare their equipment.
Behind us, the wedding guests were leaving in small groups. Some offered sympathetic words. Others avoided looking at me.
My father stood near the pavilion with his arms crossed.
Dylan sat on a bench beside the deputy, his shoulders slumped. He'd handed over his phone and provided a preliminary account of the messages he'd received from Dad.
For the first time in his life, my brother couldn't laugh his way out of trouble.
And for the first time in mine, I wasn't rushing to rescue him.
Ethan's phone rang.
He answered and walked a few steps away.
I could hear only fragments of the conversation.
“Yes, we have the message.””
“No, the package hasn't been recovered.””
“Understood. We'll follow the instructions and preserve the scene.””
When he returned, his expression was grave.
“The attorneys handling the investigation have been notified about the incident. They're coordinating with the appropriate authorities and the forensic team.””
“Does that mean the hard drive is ruined?””
“No. It means nobody is going to make assumptions before they examine it.””
I nodded.
The metal case had been secured inside the Mustang's trunk. I remembered checking the latch the previous evening, then placing the ownership papers and restoration records beneath the blanket.
I'd believed I was protecting everything.
Instead, I'd unknowingly placed irreplaceable documents and sensitive evidence in a vehicle my brother would deliberately sink.
“What happens if the drive is damaged?”” I asked.
Ethan took a moment before answering.
“Then the forensic specialists will assess whether it can be recovered and what procedures are appropriate. We won't know more until they have it.””
He squeezed my hand.
“Claire, I need you to understand something. Whatever happens to that evidence, this isn't your fault.””
I looked at him.
“I know you want me to believe that.””
“I don't want you to believe it because I'm saying it. I want you to understand that you didn't cause this.””
I looked back at the water.
I wasn't sure I could separate the damage to the car from the damage to my family.
For years, I'd been the person who kept the peace. When Dylan broke something, I helped Dad explain it away. When Dad said something cruel, I pretended it hadn't hurt. When Grandpa died, I tried to make the grief easier for everyone else by taking care of the things he'd left behind.
I'd thought that was what being a good daughter and sister meant.
Now I wondered how many of my family's problems had survived because I was always willing to absorb the consequences.
A voice interrupted my thoughts.
“Claire?””
I turned.
My aunt Patricia stood a few feet away, holding her purse against her chest.
She'd been one of the cousins' closest companions throughout the afternoon, and she'd laughed when Dylan tossed me the keys.
Now she looked ashamed.
“I wanted to apologize,” she said.
I didn't know what to say.
She glanced toward the lake.
“When Dylan did that, I thought it was an awful joke, but I didn't think he'd actually damaged anything permanently. Your father was laughing, and everyone else seemed to think it was funny.””
“So you laughed, too.””
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Yes.””
She swallowed.
“I should have stopped him. I should have said something.””
I wanted to tell her that it was all right.
The words almost came automatically.
Then I stopped myself.
“Thank you for apologizing,” I said.
“But I need you to understand that I wasn't upset because I couldn't take a joke. I was upset because everyone watched something important to me being destroyed and decided my pain was entertaining.””
Patricia lowered her eyes.
“I understand.””
I wasn't sure she did.
But at least she'd asked.
She walked away, leaving me with Ethan and the sound of equipment being moved across the dock.
A few minutes later, the deputy approached.
“Ms. Claire, we have another question about the vehicle's contents.””
I straightened.
“What is it?””
“Your brother mentioned that he and his friend moved the car from the gravel parking area before lowering it. Did you notice whether the trunk was open at any point during the morning?””
I thought carefully.
“No. I checked it the previous evening, and it was closed when I left it. I didn't see Dylan move it.””
“Did you have any reason to believe someone had accessed the vehicle before the incident?””
I thought of the anonymous message.
The old agreement.
My father's insistence that the Mustang disappear.
Then I remembered something I'd almost forgotten.
The small scratch on the trunk lock.
I'd noticed it that morning when I walked past the car on my way into the pavilion.
At the time, I'd assumed it was an old mark I'd simply failed to notice during the restoration.
Now I wasn't so certain.
“There was a scratch near the lock,” I said.
“I don't know when it appeared.””
The deputy recorded the information.
“Don't try to determine anything yourself. The recovery specialists will document the vehicle's condition.””
He returned to the team.
I turned toward Ethan.
“Someone may have opened the trunk before Dylan moved the car.””
“Possibly.””
“And Dad knew there were papers inside.””
“Yes.””
“What if somebody was looking for a particular document?””
Ethan didn't answer immediately.
“That's something the investigators will need to establish. We shouldn't assume the message tells us exactly what happened.””
I knew he was right.
Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that we'd been approaching the truth from the wrong direction.
We had spent hours asking why Dylan sank the Mustang.
But the more I learned, the more important another question became.
Why had someone wanted the car gone before I left?
At 7:18 p.m., the recovery specialist called the deputy over.
They'd determined a safe approach and were preparing to attach the lifting equipment.
Everyone moved back behind the marked boundary.
I stood beside Ethan, my heart pounding as the crane's engine started.
The cable tightened.
The water rippled.
For several seconds, nothing happened.
Then the dark blue roof emerged from beneath the surface.
Water poured from the windows.
The Mustang rose slowly, tilting as the recovery team guided it away from the submerged dock structure.
I covered my mouth.
Even through the water and mud, I recognized every curve.
The restored bodywork I'd polished by hand.
The chrome trim I'd spent weeks searching for.
The rear bumper Grandpa had insisted should remain original.
The vehicle looked impossibly fragile.
When the car finally cleared the water, the team lowered it onto a recovery platform.
I could see the damage more clearly now.
The windows were broken. The interior was flooded. Mud clung to the tires and undercarriage.
The trunk remained shut.
I took a step forward before Ethan gently touched my arm.
“Wait.””
The specialists needed to secure the vehicle and document its condition before anyone approached it.
The deputy asked me to confirm the registration details again, and I did.
Then the recovery specialist pointed toward the rear of the car.
“There appears to be something wedged beneath the trunk lid.””
My heart lurched.
“What?””
He indicated a narrow gap near the latch.
A thin strip of dark material protruded from the seam.
It could have been a piece of fabric, a damaged seal, or something else entirely.
Nobody touched it.
The specialist photographed the area and consulted the deputy before continuing.
I stood frozen as they examined the trunk's exterior.
The latch appeared damaged.
There were fresh marks around the lock, though nobody had yet determined when or how they had occurred.
Ethan leaned close to me.
“Whatever is inside, we'll let them handle it.””
I nodded.
Then I heard a sharp intake of breath behind us.
My father had moved closer to the recovery platform.
He was staring at the trunk.
Not at the car's damaged body.
Not at the shattered windows.
At the trunk.
His face had gone ashen.
And when the deputy noticed him watching, Dad immediately stepped backward.
“Richard,” the deputy called, “is there something you need to tell us?””
My father shook his head.
“No.””
The deputy held his gaze.
“Are you certain?””
Dad looked toward me.
For a moment, I thought he might finally confess whatever he'd been hiding.
Instead, he turned away.
“I've said everything I have to say.””
The deputy asked him to remain nearby.
Then the recovery specialist announced that the vehicle was stable enough for the next stage of inspection.
The trunk would be examined under controlled conditions, with the appropriate personnel present to document whatever was found.
I felt Ethan's hand close around mine.
The Mustang was back on solid ground.
But as I watched the damaged trunk, I realized that recovering the car was only the beginning.
Someone had wanted its contents hidden.
Someone had known enough to worry about the papers.
And someone had been prepared to let my grandfather's legacy disappear beneath the lake rather than risk me finding out why.
I looked at my father.
He was no longer watching the car.
May you like
He was watching the deputy.
And he looked like a man waiting for a door to close before anyone could see what was behind it.
