Three-year-old Noah Cole had been crying for almost five minutes before his father understood that the boy was not hurt.
He was pointing at the floor.
“Daddy.”
Ethan Cole dropped to his knees beside him.
“What happened?”
Noah’s cheeks were wet, his lower lip shaking as he pressed one small hand against the dark walnut boards running through the living room of their newly renovated home.
“Down there.”
Ethan looked.
At first, he saw nothing except a long scratch across one floorboard.
The house was only six months out of renovation, and under any other circumstances Ethan might have been annoyed. He had spent nearly forty thousand dollars restoring the original hardwood instead of replacing it.
But Noah was frightened.
Not guilty.
“Did you drop something?”
The little boy shook his head.
“Show Daddy.”
Noah pointed again.
“Mommy.”
Ethan stopped moving.
For a second, the house became completely silent.
“Noah.”
“Mommy there.”
Ethan stared at his son.
Noah had been eighteen months old when Rachel died.
Old enough to recognize photographs.
Old enough to have fragments of memory.
Too young, Ethan had always believed, to remember anything clearly.
He touched Noah’s shoulder.
“What do you mean?”
The boy leaned closer to the damaged board.
“Mommy star.”
Ethan finally saw it.
Deep inside the narrow crack was something metallic.
Only a tiny corner showed.
Gold.
Ethan lowered himself until his cheek nearly touched the floor.
“What the hell?”
Noah sniffed.
“Mommy.”
Footsteps approached from the kitchen.
“Ethan?”
His mother entered carrying a silver tray with coffee and two porcelain cups.
Vivian Cole stopped immediately when she saw her son on the floor.
At sixty-two, Vivian looked younger from a distance. Her blond hair rested perfectly against her shoulders, and even on a quiet Sunday morning she wore dark trousers and a fitted navy blouse rather than anything resembling casual clothes.
She had always been like that.
Prepared.
Composed.
Never caught looking as if life had surprised her.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
Ethan did not answer.
He pushed one fingernail into the gap between the boards.
The wood shifted.
That surprised him.
The floorboards in this room had been laid in 1928 and secured directly over the original subfloor. Ethan knew because he had personally supervised the renovation.
They were not supposed to move.
He pressed harder.
The board lifted almost half an inch.
Noah immediately backed away.
“Daddy, no.”
“It’s okay.”
Ethan reached into his pocket for the small folding knife he used to open packages.
Vivian set the tray on a nearby table.
“Ethan.”
He looked over.
“What?”
“You’re going to destroy the floor.”
“The board is loose.”
“Then call someone tomorrow.”
Ethan returned his attention to the gap.
“There’s something underneath it.”
Vivian said nothing.
He inserted the flat edge of the knife.
The board rose another inch.
A line of pale unfinished wood appeared along one side.
Someone had cut it.
Not during renovation.
Earlier.
Then carefully fitted it back into position.
Ethan felt a strange tightening in his chest.
He looked toward his mother.
“When we restored this room, did the flooring crew mention a repair here?”
Vivian’s face remained still.
“Not that I remember.”