Page 71 of Innocent Until Proven Witch

A sharp laugh escapes me. Everything colliding at once. The years of shame. The isolation. The whispers. The accusations. Built on lies.

My eyes burn. Not from grief this time. From fury. Pure fury.

I watch the ocean beyond the lighthouse windows. Dark waves crash against the cliffs below. For years I carried a burden that never belonged to me. For years my grandmother carried it too.

No more.

I glance down at the journal, then at the hidden compartment, then toward the stack of evidence gathering around us. Finn's discoveries. The financial records. The tunnels. The relic. The storms. The pieces are finally beginning to connect.

The people behind this thought history would protect them. They thought time would bury the truth.

Standing alone inside the lighthouse, my grandmother's journals pressed against my chest, I realize something.

They were wrong.

After feeling hunted all my life, I don't anymore. I feel like doing the hunting.

26

FINN

The lantern burns low. I should have gone to sleep hours ago. Instead, I sit at the boathouse table surrounded by records. Pages cover every available surface. Shipping manifests, harbor registrations, trade agreements, old reports, financial records. The deeper I dig, the uglier everything becomes.

Outside, waves strike the docks with steady rhythm. Inside, silence fills the room.

I drag a hand across my face, then return to the documents. One more page. One more name. One more date. That's what I've been telling myself all night. The lie stopped working a long time ago.

My eyes drift across another manifest, then stop. My attention sharpens immediately. I lean closer, read it again, then again. The name doesn't change.

Blackwater Trading.

My pulse quickens. I grab another record, then another. The pages rustle loudly in the empty room. No. No way.

I spread them across the table. Dates, routes, cargo permits, trade records. The pieces begin sliding together, slowly, then all at once.

My father's company.

My stomach tightens. I watch the papers, the realization settling heavily. Blackwater Trading wasn't operating through Aldric's network. It wasn't dependent on his routes, his market. My father was independent. Exactly like the fishermen. Exactly like the merchants. Exactly like the names I've been circling for days.

The room suddenly feels colder. I flip through more records, searching, comparing, checking. Every answer creates another question. My father competed with Aldric. Not openly, not aggressively, but he did. The fact remains.

I lean back slowly. A strange feeling settles in my chest. Unease. The kind that arrives when an old memory suddenly changes shape.

I remember the funeral, the grief, the silence that followed. The town called it a tragedy. An accident. A cruel twist of fate. Now I find myself staring at these papers wondering whether any of it was true. The thought refuses to leave.

By sunrise, I know exactly where I'm going.

She looks up from the boathouse counter. The moment she sees me, her expression changes. Not because she's surprised but she knows me. She recognizes the look. "You didn't sleep."

The statement isn't a question. I toss the folder onto the counter. "Good morning to you too."

Mother folds her arms. "Finn."

I sigh. "Fine."

She waits. I stare at the coffee pot that she points toward "Help yourself."

"You're a saint."