Page 98 of Wild Sanctuary

“I don’t believe it was an accident, Wyatt.”

I watch as that lands, watch his jaw tighten as his eyes fill with questions before I continue. “Dad’s death. Bill’s death. It wasn’t an accident. None of it was.”

All the color drains from his face as those green eyes widen. “What are you talkin’ about?”

His jaw works. His hands haven’t let go of the mattress.

“My dad withdrew fifty thousand dollars a week before he died.” I state it plainly without buildup. “A cashier’s check made out to cash. Just his handwriting in the margin of his notebook that said ‘buying back proof’.”

Wyatt doesn’t move, not so much as an eyelash.

“Fifty thousand dollars from a man who budgeted his groceries down to the last cent and bought Christmas gifts in October. That’s not a whim. That’s a man paying for something he was desperate to get his hands on.”

“Proof of what?” His voice is barely there.

“I don’t know yet. The check was the first thing I found, and it was also the first place the trail went cold. Made out to cash means no payee, no name, no way to trace. So I stopped pulling on the money and started pulling on land.”

“And?”

“Larkspur River was sold at auction through a firm called Whitmore and Associates out of Helena. Legal services on paper. No website, no client list, no physical office I’ve ever been able to find. They dissolved three months after Mom signed the papers. Then I pulled every property in the valley that changed hands under financial duress over the last decade. Four of them were bought by the same shell. Mountain West Acquisitions. Same Helena profile as Whitmore. But where Whitmore wrapped up cleanly, Mountain West never did. It went quiet four months after Dad died and it’s still on the books, filing the bare minimum to stay registered.”

“Never heard of either of them.”

“You most likely wouldn’t have. But when I laid Whitmore’s articles of incorporation beside Mountain West’s, the signatory name was the same. One phantom person running both shells. And every notarized document in either operation carries the same stamp.”

He goes still. “Whose?”

“Daniel Rupert Cutter. Licensed notary out of Blackstone Creek.”

“Danny Cutter’s in the hospital and old as the hills.” His eyes narrow. “He didn’t break into your cabin.”

“I know. But his daughter Alma is still local. Glen tracked her down for me.”

He’s staring at me like I’ve pulled the floor out from under him, and I suppose I have. Three years of believing it was an icy road and bad luck, and I’ve just handed him a trail that says otherwise.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

It’s not accusatory. It’s bewildered. And it stings, because the honest answer isn’t flattering.

“Because I told myself the fewer people who knew, the better.”

He flinches. Small, but I see it, and I rush to make him see my way of thinking.

“I didn’t know what you knew, or what you might have missed, or whether telling you would help or blow the whole thing up. And part of me was afraid you’d tell me to quit it, and chase me back to Denver.”

“And now?”

“Now someone broke into my cabin and took my laptop, and that tells me two things.” I hold up a finger. “One. Someone knows I’m looking. Which means I’m closer than I thought.” A second finger. “Two. They think they’ve rattled me. They think I’m going to pack up and run away.”

I look at him, steady and sure.

“Everything on that laptop is backed up to the cloud. Every file, every note, every thread I’ve pulled. They stole a piece of hardware, but they got nothing.”

His expression shifts. Part relief, part frustration, and complete pride.

“So you’re not leavin’.”

“I’m not leaving.”