Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 119597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 478(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119597 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 478(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
If she knew the degree to which I stalked her, the level of my obsession, she would never come back.
I have dozens of recordings, all without her knowledge, videos and pictures of her flawless body in various stages of undress, sometimes when she showered, other times while she slept.
Even now, a video streams of her wearing nothing but a thong as she lingers in our closet, choosing something to wear. She thought I was asleep, not angling my phone and intruding on her privacy.
If idolizing my wife makes me a pervert, I don’t give a fuck. I would do it again.
In the loneliness of the night, these recordings are what keep me anchored.
Another week passes. A week of anguish and fruitless searching.
It’s time to let Sirena go, return to the yacht, and continue the investigation on my own.
As I plan to do exactly that, a breakthrough shatters my resolve.
The discovery comes unexpectedly with a text on my phone.
Sirena: I’m in the wine cellar. Come quickly.
Excitement rushes through me, alive and visceral, as I pocket my phone and run.
What did Sirena find?
Yesterday, she began to explore parts of the estate previously deemed irrelevant, impenetrable spaces enclosed in stone, untouched by the chaos of our search.
Heart pounding, I bound down the dusty stairs and descend beneath the earth.
“Over here.” Her voice drifts from behind rows of aged bottles and forgotten vintages.
As I round the corner of the wine cellar, she waves me over.
“There’s a closet.” She steps back, making room for me in the narrow space. “Lots of shelves. They’re all empty but one. We didn’t remove anything. I sent the team away, just in case…”
In case I find something incriminating.
The air swirls with dust as I squeeze behind a wall of wine.
Hidden behind a false panel in the wine rack lies a chamber so cleverly disguised that it blends seamlessly with the surrounding stone.
Inside, carefully preserved against the damp and the dark, waits a fireproof safe with a keypad lock.
The set of my jaw, the tension in my shoulders, every inch of me is strung tight as I remove the box. The sleek keypad gleams under the flickering light, each button a gatekeeper to the unknown.
One by one, I input the codes known only to me and my father, a series of numbers and combinations, each carrying the burden of past confidences.
When I reach the date of my brother’s death, my fingers hesitate. A chill brushes my spine. The digits fall like a hammer, each press a stab of accusation.
The safe clicks open, the sound reverberating against stone, unlocking more than just a metal door.
The moment hangs, suspended between the shadows of the past and hope for the future.
Sirena backs away, giving me privacy.
My hands steady as I reach inside, withdrawing a cache of documents. The papers rustle, a whisper in the silence, promising answers or perhaps more questions.
Each breath is a battle, every heartbeat a drum of war, as I unfold the first secret.
Blue paper. White lines. Before computers, this is how architects created building drawings.
If this is the blueprint for this estate, it’s too little, too late.
But as I study it more closely, I don’t recognize the floor plan. The design is a two-story log cabin built on massive pilings that anchor into permafrost.
With a cellar.
That’s insane. The ground freezes and thaws every year over permafrost, making it an active layer. No one builds beneath it.
Except Rurik Strakh.
He was an architectural mastermind, top of his class at university. He owned the largest construction company in Russia and here in Alaska.
But that’s not how he accumulated his obscene wealth.
The craftsmanship and sophistication detailed in this blueprint is unmistakably that of my father, his genius evident in the lines and annotations that pepper the pages.
The question is…did he build this? Where? For what purpose?
Maybe he wanted a safe house in the event that his enemies discovered his fortress here?
More blueprints accompany it, designs for solar panels on the roof, dual chimneys, coal stoves, a water tank that switches between electricity and wood heat, and…
What is this?
A hydroelectric generator?
My eyes scan the mechanics, the complexity. It’s a rural, single-family power system that feeds off a nearby river. The concept is brilliant and innovative, promising self-sufficiency.
This is the work of my brother.
Denver was a genius with an engineer’s brain. Years ahead of his time, he conceptualized and designed machines that ran on alternative power. Before he died, his dream was to harness free energy for everyday use.
My stomach knots.
All of this reeks of an off-grid refuge, hidden from the prying eyes of the world.
If it wasn’t built, the blueprints wouldn’t be here. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe my father died before he completed it, and the structure is sitting in a remote corner of the world, half-finished and forgotten.
But I don’t think so.
When I cleaned out his office, it was filled with unfinished projects.