Chapter Thirty-Six
At the beginning of March, the weather was bitter, forcing us to venture out only when absolutely necessary. We huddled indoors, where Nick coaxed warmth from the fireplace almost every night; the central heating wheezed and groaned, struggling to hold back the cold.
Now, nearly five months after our trip to Black Water, we still hadn’t heard anything.
It was like nothing had ever happened there.
I occasionally Googled the area to see if there was any news, looking for posts about Robert’s death.
I wanted to be prepared, just in case. And I was worried the investigation, if the Sheriff had started one, would circle back to me, dragging up questions about my involvement in both Lucas’s and his father’s disappearances.
But days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, and still, nothing.
Curiously enough, I was finally left alone. No one contacted me for interviews or tried to push me for answers anymore. I didn’t think it was a miracle, just the natural passage of time. My story had gone stale, and people had moved on.
Even as the drama surrounding me died down, none of my former friends from Minneapolis ever followed up with me. My social media accounts were still active, although I hadn’t posted in ages, and my phone number hadn’t changed; yet, nobody reached out. To be fair, neither did I.
My phone stayed silent, except for the occasional spam call about my car’s extended warranty. Those were easy to ignore. Since my number was registered in Ohio, most of them came from the same area code.
But not this one.
The screen lit up with "Unknown Number." I hesitated, still wary of unfamiliar callers, then decided to take the risk.
"Miss Foster, this is Officer Jenkins from the Minneapolis Police Department," a woman’s voice said. "I’m calling regarding your recent inquiry about Lucas Whitman."
I almost fainted. This is it, I thought. They found Robert. They’re investigating. We’re done.
It took me a few seconds to remember the officer and my visit to the station in September, nearly half a year ago, before our trip to Black Water.
The woman continued, "This is a courtesy call to inform you that we did look into the links between the individuals you brought to our attention. Are you still there?"
"Yes?" I croaked.
"While I can’t disclose specifics, a small connection between Lucas Whitman and the car accident victim Erin Boyd was discovered. Both lived in the same region—"
"Black Water?" I interrupted, too shaken to hold my tongue.
She paused. "Yes. But our investigation suggests that was an isolated coincidence. Erin Boyd died in a car accident. Lucas Whitman is still considered missing."
Relief washed over me, slow and staggering. "Okay." But as her words sank in, a cold dread began to seep into my veins. "Wait. Erin Boyd? Not Mary Flynn?"
"Yes. That was the legal name of the woman."
"And she died in a car accident? She wasn’t murdered?"
"Like I said, Miss Foster. A car accident." Her tone cooled. "If that’s all—"
"Hold on!" I cut in, panicked she might hang up. "You said Mary—or Erin—lived in Black Water? Please. This might be important."
"Is there something you’re not telling me, Miss Foster?"
"No... I’m just trying to understand. Lucas’s disappearance ruined my life."
"I can’t share that information." Another pause, like she was weighing what she could say. Then a sigh. "The estate now belongs to her surviving relatives. You may be able to find public records online, but I advise you to leave them alone and find other ways to rebuild your life."
"I didn’t know she had property in Black Water. I thought she moved years ago," I murmured, barely registering her warning. "So… does that mean it belongs to her son now?"
"I’ll repeat myself, Miss Foster: stay out of this. If you come across new information, contact me. Otherwise… good day."
And with that, the line went dead.
This couldn’t be right.
I sat in stunned silence, my heart racing like a jackhammer, trying to piece together the fragments. The puzzle we’d been trying to assemble and make sense of had been upside down all along.
However, without revealing much, the officer provided me with enough information to go on. It hadn’t dawned on us that the land deep in the woods could be privately owned. We thought the private property signs were just there to scare off tourists.
That single detail changed everything. If Nick’s mother had property there, then he must have known about it. Why hadn’t he mentioned it?
What he told us was that his mother had suddenly gone to Black Water for reasons unknown to him and was murdered there.
I started thinking back. Nick often opted out of things, subtly redirecting us without ever making it obvious. He made it seem like it was my idea, or Mitch’s. He said his mother’s death wasn’t relevant and might get us off track. But did he really believe that, or was it just a convenient excuse?
He was intelligent, inquisitive, and always seeking the truth. He was the one who made most of the connections in the case. Or had he been guiding us the whole time? Nudging us in specific directions while keeping himself in the background? But why? What was he trying to achieve?
The grimoire.
The thought snapped me back to the present.
Was I seriously entertaining the idea that Nick, my Nick, had orchestrated all of this just to get the damn book?
That he’d planned it from the beginning?
But we were the ones who’d shown up at his door.
Besides, it was Mathilda who gave us the coordinates to the place.
That couldn’t be right. He couldn’t have known.
I got up and went upstairs to grab my laptop.
It wasn’t hard to narrow down the approximate location of the clearing—we’d been there enough times.
I searched for the parcel number and eventually found the deed and property records.
My mind kept racing with a silent, steady no, no, no. And then I saw it.
The owner’s name:
Nick Boyd.
My heart sank. Everything inside me dropped away.
I stormed into Nick’s office, hands trembling, fury and confusion flooding my body.
I tore through the shelves, yanking out books and files, looking for anything—an explanation, something to prove it was all a mistake—but instead, I found a folder with a letter from a lawyer confirming the inheritance.
Property transfer papers. There it was, in plain black and white. Dates. Signatures. Legal stamps.
I reached for my phone to call Nick, who was out running errands, but stopped myself.
One part of me wanted to scream at him, burn the book, throw everything into the fireplace and watch it curl to ash.
Another part whispered to stay quiet. To forget I ever found this.
To go on like nothing happened. To stay here, in this calm and quiet life we’d built.
Or maybe this wasn’t a haven at all. Maybe it was a limbo. A place where you’re locked alone with your thoughts and fears, forever spinning in circles, simmering in your own self-loathing.
I had stayed with Lucas, even after the way he treated me. I convinced myself it was love, that I just needed to wait things out.
But that got me nowhere.
It was only a matter of time before the same—or worse—would happen with Nick.
By the time Nick got home, his entire office was in disarray. Amid the chaos of scattered books and papers I never bothered to pick up, the damning documents lay neatly arranged on the floor, like evidence at a crime scene.
He called out from downstairs. I didn’t respond. I was afraid that if I used my voice, I’d start screaming and wouldn’t stop until my vocal cords tore into a bloody mess.
Still calling my name, he came upstairs.
When he reached the doorway and saw the mess, he stopped short.
His eyes scanned the room, then locked onto the papers.
Recognition flared in his expression, which then shifted to a sheepish, caught-in-the-act look—the kind of look a husband gets when he’s just been found messaging another woman.
He took a step forward but froze when I raised a hand, warning him not to come any closer.
"Nell... It’s not—" he began, cautiously.
"Do you think I’m stupid?" But maybe I was. It was right there in front of me, and I never cared to check.
"Let me—" he tried again.
"Oh, now you want to explain? Now that I’ve pieced it all together myself?"
"I swear, I had nothing to do with it. I just… didn’t know how to tell you," Nick said, stepping toward me again before hesitating. "Nell…" he started, but I sucked in a sharp, furious breath—and that was enough. He stopped, lowering his head just a touch, shoulders falling.
"Okay," I said. "Then tell me. Tell me the whole truth. Right now."
He turned away, ran his hand over his face, and then turned back to me.
Finally, he spoke, "My mother was born in Black Water. She got the grimoire from her great-grandmother. The story about the coven is partly true—only the grimoire never disappeared. It’s been in my family for generations. Maybe longer. I don’t really know."
He lifted his eyes to mine and continued.
"She met Robert when she was very young. Apparently, together they managed to decipher parts of the grimoire and create sigils that actually worked. At some point, she didn’t feel safe around him anymore. You’ve seen him. He was insane. That kind of power… it didn’t do him any good."
"What does Lucas have to do with it?"
"He stole the grimoire from her. She didn’t see it coming.
She didn’t even know Robert’s son knew anything about it.
Robert kept his wife in the dark, so it’s weird he told Lucas that much.
But he did. Then Lucas forced her to grant his wish.
Something ridiculous. Like to be a star athlete.
Like getting into some hall of fame or whatever. " Nick said, starting to roll his eyes.