Sarah: What? How could those be in your truck? The lawyer said the estate safe was wiped clean during the break-in!
Mark: I don't know, Sarah. I swear to you, I didn't put these here.
Sarah: Mark, who opened your truck last night?
Mark stepped closer to the driver's side, careful not to touch the interior door handle with his bare hands. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his handkerchief, and gently nudged the door open wider. Sitting on the leather passenger seat was a small black leather journal, its pages frayed at the edges. Tucked into the side was a handwritten note addressed directly to him.
Mark: There’s a letter here. It has my name on it.
Sarah: Don't touch it, Mark! We need to call the police right now!
Toby: Papa! Man in tree!
Mark spun around instantly, his heart slamming into his ribs. Toby was pointing up into the thick canopy of the ancient oak tree hanging right above the driveway. The dense leaves rustled slightly, not from the breeze, but from weight shifting along a lower branch.
Mark: Sarah, get Toby inside the house right now! Lock the door!
Sarah: Mark, come with us! Don't stay out here alone!
Mark: Go! Inside, now!
Sarah grabbed Toby, scooping him into her arms despite his protests, and ran back up the porch steps. The heavy front door slammed shut, and the deadbolt clicked into place. Mark stood alone on the concrete driveway, his muscles tense, his eyes locked on the thick oak branch directly above his pickup truck.
Mark: Who's up there? Come down right now before I call the cops!
A low, raspy voice drifted down from the branches, coughing hard before speaking.
Voice: You don't need to call them, Mark. They're already looking for me anyway.
Mark: Uncle Richard? Is that... is that you?
The leaves parted, and a tall, gaunt man climbed down from the lower limb, landing heavily on the soft dirt beside the driveway. His jacket was torn, covered in wood dust and dry dirt, and his face was pale, hollowed out by exhaustion. It was Richard—Mark's late father’s younger brother, the man who had vanished three days after the family patriarch passed away.
Mark: What are you doing here? Everyone thinks you stole the inheritance and ran off to Mexico!
Richard: That's what your stepmother wanted everyone to think, Mark. She’s the one who cleaned out the safe.
Mark: What are you talking about? Stepmother Clara filed a police report against you! She showed the detective the security footage of you walking out of the study with the briefcase!
Richard: Look at the papers in your truck, Mark. Look at them before you judge me.
Mark: Why put them in my car? Why hide in my tree like a crazy person?
Richard: Because Clara’s lawyers have men watching my apartment and your dad’s estate. If I tried to meet you openly, they would have taken these documents before you ever saw the truth.
Mark looked back toward the truck, then at his trembling uncle. Richard looked battered, like a man who hadn't slept or eaten in days. The metallic smell Mark had noticed earlier wasn't oil—it was dark grease Richard had smeared over his jacket to hide in the shadow of the truck frame before climbing the oak.
Mark: What truth, Uncle Richard? What is in that envelope?
Richard: The real will. The one your father signed forty-eight hours before he died in the hospital. The one Clara tried to burn.
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