Caleb parks the UTV in a stand of trees, partially hidden from view. “We’re about fifteen minutes early,” he says, checking his watch. “I want to scout the place before anyone shows up.”
“I’ll come with you,” I say immediately.
He nods, then turns to Julia. “Can you stay with the UTV? Keep an eye out for anyone approaching?”
She salutes playfully. “Scout and I will be your lookouts.”
Scout wags his tail at the sound of his name but stays firmly by my side when I exit the vehicle. Caleb retrieves his gun from beneath the seat, checking it discreetly before tucking it into his waistband at the small of his back.
“Be careful,” Julia calls softly as we head toward the mill.
The snow crunches beneath our boots as we approach the ruins. Despite the sunlight, there’s something eerie about the abandoned structure—a sense of watching eyes from the empty window frames, of whispers in the creaking timbers.
“Stay close,” Caleb murmurs, his hand occasionally brushing against mine as we pick our way through the snow.
The entrance to the mill is a gaping doorway, its wooden door long since rotted away. Inside, the air is noticeably colder, with patches of sunlight streaming through holes in the roof.
“Look at this,” I whisper, pointing to the floor. Fresh footprints mark the dusty surface, leading deeper into the mill.
“Someone’s already been here,” Caleb confirms, his expression grim. “Recently.”
Scout’s ears perk up, his head turning toward the back of the mill where a staircase leads to an upper level. A soft growl rumbles in his chest.
“What is it, boy?” I ask quietly, my heart rate accelerating.
Caleb reaches for his gun, his movements slow and deliberate. “Someone’s here,” he breathes, barely audible.
The creak of a floorboard above us confirms his assessment. We freeze, eyes locked on the staircase. Scout’s growl deepens, his hackles rising.
“Hello?” a voice calls from above—a woman’s voice, but not Julia’s. “Caleb? Is that you?”
I glance at Caleb, whose face has hardened into an unreadable mask. He positions himself slightly in front of me, gun now drawn but pointed at the floor.
“Who’s asking?” he calls back, his voice steady.
Footsteps approach the top of the stairs, and a figure emerges from the shadows—a woman in her late fifties or early sixties, with silver hair pulled back in a practical braid.
Margret Holloway.
“I’m glad you came,” she says, her eyes moving between us and lingering on Scout, who continues to growl softly. “Though I did ask you to come alone.”
“You didn’t sign your name,” Caleb replies coolly. “You know, you didn’t have to be all secretive; you could have just come knocking on the door or told us yesterday when you brought over the cinnamon rolls.”
Margret’s lips press into a thin line. “I couldn’t risk being seen at Ella’s place for too long. There are eyes everywhere.” She begins descending the stairs, each wooden step creaking beneath her weight. “And I had no way of knowing if your house was being watched.”
I stand my ground beside Caleb, feeling the tension radiating from him. Scout stays pressed against my leg, his growl a continuous warning.
“You could have called,” I point out. “Never mind, they were out.”
Margret reaches the bottom of the stairs, keeping a respectful distance. “That they were, and phones can be tapped. Especially out here where everyone knows everyone’s business.” Her gaze shifts to Caleb’s gun. “You can put that away. I’m not here to hurt anyone.”
“I’ll decide that,” he replies, though he does lower the weapon slightly. “You said you had crucial information about Wolf’s treasure. Start talking.”
Margret sighs, looking suddenly tired. “You found the ammunition box, didn’t you? By the creek?”
I exchange a glance with him, silently debating how much to reveal. He gives me an almost imperceptible nod.
“Yes,” I admit. “How did you know about it?”
