Page 72 of Innocent Until Proven Witch

"Drink the coffee before I change my mind."

I obey. A few moments later, I settle into a chair. She watches me over the rim of her mug, patient, waiting. She knows I'll eventually get to the point. Unfortunately.

I stare into the coffee, then finally ask, "How did Dad die?"

The question lands heavily between us. She slowly lowers her cup. For a moment she doesn't answer. The hesitation alone tells me enough.

"Finn."

I meet her gaze. "Tell me."

She studies me, the concern in her eyes deepening. "What happened?"

I tap the folder. "I found something."

The answer isn't enough. We both know it. Still, she sits across from me, the chair creaking softly. Then she exhales slowly, as though reaching backward through years of memories.

"Your father's ship never came home."

The familiar story. The one I've heard my entire life. I nod. "I know."

Her fingers tighten around her mug. "The weather changed unexpectedly."

Another familiar piece. "Then?"

Her gaze drifts toward the harbor, toward the sea, toward ghosts. "They found debris." The answer arrives quietly. "No bodies."

I wait as she remains silent, thinking, remembering. Eventually she says, "It never made sense."

My pulse quickens. I lean forward. "What didn't?"

She laughs softly, without humor. "All of it." That wasn't the answer I expected. "Your father knew those waters better than anyone." I remain silent. She continues. "He respected storms. He respected currents. He respected the sea." Her eyes find mine again. "He didn't make careless mistakes."

The conviction in her voice sends a chill down my spine. Growing up, I always accepted the official explanation. A storm. Bad luck. A tragedy. Now I hear uncertainty beneath every word. Years of it.

"Then why was it ruled an accident?" I ask.

Her jaw tightens. "Because that's what they told us."

The answer settles heavily. I open the folder, slide several documents across the table. She frowns and reaches for them. The silence stretches as she reads.

The deeper she goes, the paler her face becomes. Her eyes move across the names, the dates, the records. Then she looks up.

"Oh."

I turn the page. "He was competing with Aldric."

Mother says nothing.. "So were the others." Still nothing. The realization hangs between us, growing larger with every passing second.

I lean back. "The same pattern keeps appearing."

She closes the folder slowly, carefully, as though it might explode. "Finn." The warning in her voice doesn't stop me, because the thought is already there. Already taking shape.

"The accidents happening now. The disappearances. The storms. The reports from years ago sound exactly the same."

The silence feels endless. She eventually whispers, "I thought the same thing."

The confession steals the air from my lungs. "What?"