On the table in the video, his index finger was tapping against the wood.

Tap. Tap-tap. Tap.

It was not a nervous twitch.

“He’s using Morse code,” I said.

I grabbed the notebook from under my arm and flipped to a blank page.

I found a yellow pencil in the desk drawer and held it ready.

“Play it again,” I said.

Mara reached over and pressed the button.

I watched his finger, noting the long and short pauses between each movement.

Dash, dot, dash, dot.

“C,” I muttered, writing the letter down.

Dash, dash, dash.

“O.”

I kept my eyes glued to the screen as the ten-second video played on a continuous loop.

His finger tapped out the sequence over and over, steady and deliberate.

L-D-S-P-R-I-N-G.

“Cold Spring,” I said aloud, dropping the pencil.

“What is Cold Spring?” Mara asked, looking at the paper.

“The family estate in Maryland,” I said. “We lived there until I was twelve.”

I stared at the letters written in the notebook.

“He said the truth is buried in the grave,” I whispered.

“Is there a cemetery on the property?” Mara asked.