Page 116 of A Wolfe in the Woods

Pressure. That was what this was. Plain and simple.

I don’t want to be another one,I thought grimly. Another family gone. Land owned for generations…suddenly sold. Just like that. First the Harrowins. Then the Elmridge lot. Now the Grayers. This was no coincidence. Skoll was behind everything and I hadn’t seen it.

Erik’s voice slid uninvited into my thoughts, smooth and confident:We could use someone like you here at Skoll.

My jaw tightened.

I should have been angry just about the B&B. About the shutdown. About the guests we’d had to refund after the best booking week we’d had to date. But that wasn’t what had me wound tight.

It was Blanche. The way she’d looked at me in Graymore. Hurt. Disbelieving. Like I’d handed her a blade and then acted shocked when she cut herself on it.

I’d believed Erik. Even knowing what kind of individual he was.

That realization sat like a stone in my chest.

I stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor, and began pacing the cabin. The front living room was small. Just a desk, shelves lined with books I pretended I still read. My father’s old desk sat against the far wall, scarred and solid, a piece of him I’d never quite known what to do with.

“Dammit,” I grumbled.

The pressure had been building all day. Since the inspection. Since Erik. I’d watched Blanche’s face break in front of that fountain…and still turned my back on her like she meant nothing.

I stopped pacing.

The desk loomed in front of me.

I didn’t think. I just acted.

My foot connected with the lower panel hard enough to jar the entire piece of furniture. Pain shot up my leg, sharp and immediate. The impact was dull, heavier than expected.

The desk shifted, and I heard the unmistakable sound of something rattle inside.

I froze.

Then I kicked again, more deliberately this time. The desk shuddered, and I saw an outer panel give way, like it was…hinged? I crouched, fingers brushing along the it. There was a narrow seam, or more like a hidden compartment…one I’d never noticed before.

I pressed, and the panel fully gave way.

Inside, tucked into the narrow space, was an envelope…my name written across the front in a familiar, uneven hand.

My brow furrowed, and I peered at the panel. A letter from my father…to me. But how long had it been in here? And how would I haveeverknown where to find it?

I sat heavily on the floor and stared at it for a long moment, my thumb tracing the edge once before finally opening it.

I read slowly.

Jon,

If you’re reading this, then in the end I didn’t find the courage to say the things I should have while I was alive. I’m sorry for that. I was never good at being the man you needed. I was raised with the belief that courage meant standing your ground, baring your fangs and never yielding. I learned too late that there’s another form of courage—the kind where you admit you were wrong.

My throat burned.

I may not have been the best father. I tried the best I could. It may not seem that way to you…and there’s nothing I can say to make you believe that. That part I have to own, because you deserved better.

I stared at that line.You deserved better.It shouldn’t have made me angry…but it did. It made me furious, because it was true, and because he was saying itnow, when it wouldn’t change anything.

I swallowed hard and kept reading.

After your mother left, I became someone I didn’t recognize. I clung harder. To the land. To the life and family I’d made. To the memory of what we were before everything cracked. And most of all…to you. I didn’t know how to grieve, so I numbed myself and, in the process, alienated you. It wasn’t what I wanted, but it’s what I did. I loved your mother very much and I loved you even more, but somehow I lost you both.