Page 336 of Hidden Depths

Dad was dead.

They already knew Thomas.

Which left only one person in that photograph.

“Mom,” I whispered.

My phone rang.

Every person on the deck went still.

ELEANOR SINCLAIR flashed across the screen.

Ward took the phone from my hand.

He didn’t answer.

The ringing stopped.

A message appeared almost immediately.

Not from Mom.

From an unknown number.

Ward opened it.

There were only six words.

WE HAVE ELEANOR. BRING THE JOURNAL.

Beneath the message...

Was a photograph of our mother bound to a chair.

57

STORM

“Love does not always arrive like a wave against the shore. Sometimes it waits quietly beneath the surface, patient enough to survive the years.”

— James Sinclair

Mom was tied to a chair.

Her silver-streaked dark hair had fallen across her face.

A bruise darkened one cheek.

Her hands were bound behind her.

But her head was lifted.

Her eyes stared directly into the camera.

Defiant.

Furious.