“She faked her death,” I whispered, the words cracking in the cold wind. “Mr. Hayes helped her stage it, and when the flood surged, she slipped away, not into the water, but into the hidden cabin she always spoke of.”
The cabin, I now knew, sat a short hike beyond the treeline, its chimney smoking faintly against the moon.
She had been watching—quietly, from the shadows—over the children she loved, protecting them from the darkness she fled.
My throat tightened as the truth settled, a gut‑punch of grief and relief tangled together, and the lake’s rising waters reflected the secret she had kept for twelve long years.
