The SUV started up, its tires kicking up gravel as he backed out of the clearing and drove down the mountain.

The sheriff walked back to his patrol car to radio in the clearance to his dispatcher.

Mr. Voss walked over to me, looking at the logbook in my hands.

“Are you hurt, Maren?” he asked.

“Just some scrapes,” I said, looking down at the worn leather cover.

“Thank you, Mr. Voss. I did not think you would make it in time.”

“I drove as fast as the mountain roads allowed,” Mr. Voss said.

He looked at the dark cabin behind us, its wooden walls weathered by decades of mountain winters.

“Your father loved this place,” Mr. Voss said softly.

“He spent his last weeks here, working on something.”

“What was he working on?” I asked.

“He did not tell me,” Mr. Voss said. “He only told me that if anything happened to him, the cabin had to remain untouched.”

“He was very specific about the floorboards inside.”

I looked at the cabin, a strange feeling settling in my chest.

“The floorboards?” I repeated.