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.
