The Fog in the Flashlight (Episode 3)

The Lost & Foundry: Where Shadows Whisper Secrets

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The Lost & Foundry ✍️ Table of Contents

Have you ever wandered through a metaphorical fog, uncertain of the hidden path ahead? What mysteries do you imagine lie concealed within the swirling depths of reality?

Share your own enigmatic moments when the mist of uncertainty unveiled unexpected truths.

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“You didn’t call me over here for that, did you?” Finn says of the worn brass compass sitting on the edge of the old pine plank table that spans the length of the former kitchen, now the keeping room of Cassandra’s second-hand store, The Lost & Foundry.

“Just humor me, that’s all I’m asking,” she replies, blowing onto her morning cup of black tea and taking a tentative sip. She’s been sleeping well now that the way finder has stopped weeping, it being the most recent item from her inventory to demand her extrasensory attention. As a medium, Cassandra can hear the echoes left behind by the objects’ former owners and, in some cases, finds herself compelled to assist with a bit of unfinished business. “Everyone who touches it says it points somewhere else.”

“Fine,” Finn grumbles, tipping open the lid to read the inscription. “‘To E.T. from E.V. Find your north star.’ You think that’s Edwin Thorne? As in Thorne Forest?”

“It was in the box of things Chet brought by, and, like I told you, I heard it crying.” The friends have tried to have this conversation before, but each time Finn Harrison’s mind can’t seem to open wide enough to accept the truth of Cassandra Wilkins’ second sight. “When I listened closely, it told me where to send the sheriff.”

With a roll of his eyes, Finn picks up the way finder and watches the needle swing, “Works fine, points towards you and that’s due north.”

“You don’t say,” Cassandra smiles, her suspicions about her friend confirmed.

When she arrived in the small coastal town three years ago, Finn’s construction firm converted her grandfather’s home into the retail space that is now her livelihood. Despite her meager budget, he helped her get much more than she could afford, including a well-appointed flat on the second floor. More than six feet tall, tattooed, and built like a Clydesdale, his bullish exterior obscures the butterfly heart that beats within.

“Yep, look here,” he says, comparing it with his cellphone’s compass app. North, of course, just happens to be the same direction she’s sitting across from him. She knows his skepticism will not accept coincidence as proof of anything. “Who’s E.V.? Do you think that’s your grandfather?”

“My what?” Cassandra is taken aback.

“This was the Voss place, after all—don’t you know your family’s history?”

"I know next to nothing about my mother’s side,” she replies. Raised by her father across an ocean, Cassandra moved to Haven’s Hollow when she discovered the building’s deed in her name among the papers of his estate. “I’ve always hoped to learn more.”

“And here I thought you had friends in the Historical Society. You sure Vivian Crenshaw isn’t holding out on you?” Finn’s tone betrays the tinge of the jealousy that often accompanies a mention of Cassandra’s closest female friend.

Besides serving as the local librarian, Vivian is secretary of the Haven’s Hollow Historical Society, giving her unfettered access to the archives overflowing the musty attic of the city’s municipal building. Her brassy-haired friend is also privy to the secret Cassandra is keeping from Finn: the eleven-year-old runaway currently asleep in the flat above their heads. Calling himself Marlowe, he snuck into her shop and, when he showed signs of having gifts like hers, she decided to let him stay. Fearing her friend’s strong opinion, Cassandra has let him continue thinking she’s hiding a lover instead.

“Even if it were broken, a piece like this will sell,” Finn places the compass in her upturned palm, his eyes bulging to see the compass needle now pointing to the cellar door in the opposite corner. A moment before, everything was behaving as it should, but now the sudden reorientation challenges Finn’s sense of the possible.

“You’re playing tricks on me,” he spits. Cassandra sets the compass down, its needle returning to point northward again and turns her hand over to show she’s got nothing hidden up her sleeves. Finn smiles, unconvinced yet again, “I’ll figure out how you did it; don’t you worry. Enough fooling around—you called because the door’s loose?”

“After you installed the latch, Gus started batting a screw around.” She doesn’t clarify that it was Marlowe, not her chubby orange tabby cat, who found it. “Where else would it have come from?”

“In an antique store? Plenty of options,” he grumbles, rising to grab the toolbox he keeps on the shelves next to the empty hearth. Among their earliest squabbles was Cassandra’s insistence on the building’s original character. As a compromise, Finn made the keeping room shelves look as though they’d been there as long as the old wooden mantle. “I checked that door last week and I couldn’t get the hinges any tighter. There’s no way a screw came out since then.”

“And yet, here it is,” Cassandra says, reaching into the pocket of her gauzy cardigan for the golden bit of threaded metal, dropping it on the table.

Opening his toolbox, Finn inspects the offending item. “There’s something around here with a screw loose, but it isn’t that door. This is gold; the latch is nickel and the hinges are black iron. Here, I’ll show you.” Tugging the old door open, Finn is surprised to find Vivian Crenshaw, hand poised to knock.

“Ah, speak of the devil,” Finn says.

“And a good morning to you, Finn,” Vivian brushes past him with a smile.

“See? All screws accounted for!” Finn stops when he catches sight of Vivian kissing Cassandra on both cheeks in greeting. “Call me when you figure out where it came from so I can come fix whatever it is,” he says, abruptly pulling the alley door behind him.

“Nice to see you, too,” Vivian calls after him before helping herself to a cup of tea from Cassandra’s first pot of the day. Reaching for her satchel, she extracts a plain manila folder. “What’s got his goat?”

“He still thinks there’s a man in my bed,” Cassandra sighs. She relies on Finn and, until recently, thought he was fine with their being nothing more than friends, but his recent shows of jealousy have her doubting that. “I promise I’m going to find a way to explain everything to him.”

“If you end up adopting a child, you’ll have to tell a lot of people.” Vivian squeezes Cassandra’s hand before opening the folder. “It looks more straightforward than I thought at first. Banking on my assessment of your good character, the income and owning the store should be enough to qualify you. The real sticky wicket is how you go about specifically requesting to become the guardian of a child who’s gone missing.”

“If I can get approved to be a foster parent, that might be enough to reassure him. I don’t want to frighten Marlowe bringing it up too soon. I’d be devastated if he ended up on the street again.” Cassandra’s green eyes meet Vivian’s violet ones where she can see her friend already knows the question she’s hesitating to ask.

“Dearest, I doubt very much that my brother would keep quiet about something like that—no matter how grateful he was for that tip.” After seeing a vision related to Edwin Thorne’s compass, Cassandra shared the particulars with Tobin “Tuffy” Crenshaw, the local sheriff who hates his childhood nickname. Skeptical but duty-bound, he followed up and his dogs discovered human remains exactly where she told him to search. Since solving the one-hundred-year-old cold case, Haven’s Hollow has been bustling with a welcome infusion of interest and tourism for both the small town and struggling nature preserve. “I can try to work on him, but I’m not making any promises.”

Cassandra doesn’t respond, her attention suddenly drawn to a flickering coming from Finn’s open toolbox.

“Hello? Are you with me?”

Cassandra blinks and the flashing stops. “I’m sorry, did you see that?”

“See what?” Vivian looks around the keeping room eagerly. An ardent believer in Cassandra’s second sight, she is hopeful she’ll get a glimpse of the otherworldly while in her friend’s presence. “Is something calling to you?”

“I thought I saw a light coming from the toolbox.”

Vivian pulls it across the table, rifling around and pulling out a battered old flashlight. Though she toggles the switch back and forth, the torch remains dark. “That’s not like Finn—he can fix anything.”

“Probably a keepsake; I must have seen a reflection from the alley. I’m just tired is all,” she says, forcing a yawn and picking up the foster application. Skimming over the partially completed form, Cassandra’s heart warms at how much Vivian has already done to help her. “You really think I can do this?”

“If you want to keep him with you, I think it’s the only option,” Vivian sighs, reluctantly returning the flashlight to the toolbox. “By the way, Tuffy’s got the missing flier up at the station, so I would be extra careful letting Marlowe out to do your shopping. You know Sam Gunther at the general store has made a career out of never forgetting a face.”

“Having Marlowe around to make the list will at least remind me to go,” Cassandra chuckles. Left to her own devices, she routinely let the cupboards run bare, only remembering to shop when she ran low on tea, sugar, or shelf-stable milk.

Vivian checks her watch, “I’ve got to get to work, the Historical Society is meeting this afternoon to approve project plans for the Thorne Forest exhibition and fundraising gala. All the media attention means we’ve got some commercial sponsors interested and there’s so much to do.”

“I’d say you’re in your element. I know Chet and the other rangers will be thrilled. All this will surely bring in more tourists.”

“Your shop won’t suffer either. Good thing, because you’re going to need all the income you can show,” Vivian taps the pages before rising to shoulder her satchel. “Call me if you have any questions. I found a social worker who helped me put this together and she said to reach out if anything was unclear.”

“I’d be lost without you,” Cassandra replies as Vivian leans over to kiss her on both cheeks, the sweetness of her peony perfume filling the space between them.

After latching the alley door behind her friend, she heads for the toolbox to inspect the flashlight more closely. At her touch, the bulb illuminates, a beam of light flickering against the wall as though shining on a cloud of fog. Sudden sounds of gunfire and screaming echo in her ears. Startled, she drops the torch, and the vision ends. Before she can pick it up again, the little bell hanging over the front door rings, indicating the arrival of a potential customer.

Leaving the new puzzle behind, Cassandra passes through the doorway into the charming little shop Finn’s crew made from the former parlor, front hall, and dining room. A tasteful mishmash of armoires, steamer trunks, tables, and shelves surround the space, attractively arranged to display the wide array of books, jewelry, artwork, and objets d’art. Every item arrives with a story; however, only a special few have the power to haunt Cassandra’s dreams. The glimpse of fog in the flashlight suggests she’s found another, and it’s somehow tied to Finn.

In the store, a reporter is browsing awkwardly, eventually getting up the courage to ask if Cassandra has anything from the Thorne estate. Not willing to part with the compass until she understands why it is still misbehaving, she happily shares the vintage post cards that came from the ranger station. Showing the forest as it was transformed into a park, the sepia-toned images are just what the investigative journalist was seeking and he gleefully buys the entire stack with his corporate credit card.

If The Lost and Foundry is any metric, Haven’s Hollow must be bustling and a steady stream of new faces appear through the day. She sells a set of anatomy books that once belonged to a prize-winning biologist, hopeful the young medical student whose mother picked them out will have a similar impact on the world. A couple lingers for a while over the jewelry display, the husband happily purchasing a delicate coral and shell cameo for his wife. Carved to resemble the goddess of the hunt, Cassandra hopes the new owner will be as happy as the former Olympic equestrian for whom it had been custom-made.

While waiting on the kettle to boil for a pot of mid-afternoon green tea, Cassandra takes a second look at the flashlight. She feels as though she is spying on Finn, but she’s too curious to resist. Nudging the switch, the keeping room disappears in a swirl of mist, and she is transported to a trench in the low light of dawn with the sounds of war booming around her. Whirring bullets fly, the ground popping and shaking with the force of an attack that seems to be coming from all directions at once. She can hear the cries of the other soldiers as they’re cut down, but she can’t seem to make out anyone in the haze and debris before the bubbling sound of the electric kettle draws her back into the real world.

“Very interesting indeed, but why now?” she asks the flashlight as she sets it on the mantel and returns the toolbox to its home on the shelves. “You’ve been here for a while.”

Looking out to the shop floor, Cassandra realizes she is beginning to dread hearing the little bell. As glad as she is for the increased business, she worries one of these times, it will be the return of her most mysterious visitor. Normally, she would be delighted by an experienced antiquarian with deep pockets, but the appearance of a man whose business card identified him only as “The Collector” left her deeply unsettled. While browsing the shop, he hummed a tune that she struggled to place until after he’d gone. Until recently, that particular melody had been a comfort, calling her back from the visions inspired by object memories, but Cassandra had never heard it anywhere outside of her own head. For as comfortable as she is with the unexplainable, this feels somehow sinister.

Before she can ruminate further, the bell chimes. Holding her breath, she turns to see Harmony Jenkins arriving with an eager wave. Swallowing the last of her green tea, Cassandra picks up a packet she set aside for her friend.

“Harmony, I didn’t expect you until next week!”

“Hi Cass, yeah, I wasn’t expecting to be nearby, but I broke a string on my viola and I, uh, know a guy in town,” she says slyly.

According to local gossip, Harmony is more than friends with Jasper Ruiz, owner of Record Roast, the Hollow’s coffeehouse slash live music venue slash vinyl record store. Doing her best to survive as a musician, the petite brunette works for the Havens Hollow School District, the nearby Ravenswood Community College, and offers piano, harp, violin, flute, and guitar lessons. The two women met when Cassandra first opened, Harmony asking to hang a flier for lessons, and they’ve been in touch ever since.

The music teacher leafs through the variety of pop, rock, folk, and musical theatre songs, spreading them over the counter next to the till. “Wow, these are great—a lot of really easy stuff for beginners. Where did they come from again?”

“The estate of Estelle Danube,” she drops the name to see if the regional operatic diva remains as well-known as the memories associated with her possessions would have Cassandra believe. Whatever reputation she made on the stage, Miss Danube had exquisite taste in art nouveau jewelry, ormolu clocks, and Tiffany glass.

“Oh goodness, that old bat. You know, she was still teaching when I was at school even though she had to be in her nineties and half-blind. Some of my classmates probably left these behind after she gave them her ‘what it takes to make it in this business’ speech,” Harmony says. “‘You must be willing to step on your best friend’s neck.’”

“If there’s nothing you want, feel free to pass them along. Maybe Jasper can sell them.”

“Who said anything about him?” Harmony winks. “Thank you, I can definitely use them. Most people only think about buying the instruments when they start lessons. I’ve given away a lot of music trying to keep new students from getting discouraged.”

Refusing payment and seeing Harmony off with a wave, Cassandra stares out the picture window at the fallen leaves blowing down the mostly empty street. It’s already beginning to grow dark, and the growl in her stomach reminds her she’s neglected to eat all day. Flipping the sign to closed and drawing the shade over the front door, she weaves through the aisles, outing the lamps. In the keeping room, she stacks the day’s tea things and Vivian’s folder onto a battered copper tray. A hopeless tea lover, the Lost & Foundry always stocks a host of teapots, silver spoons, cups, and saucers and Cassandra makes a habit of washing them so they can be put back on the floor. Double checking that the alley door is latched, she takes everything up to the galley kitchen where her young charge is putting the finishing touches on a creamy stew.

“Good evening, chef. My, that smells delicious.” After some early experiments, Marlowe found a cookbook in the shop and decided to master the art of French cooking. For barely two weeks of study, he’s made great progress.

“Chicken frick-a-say,” he exclaims. Cassandra doesn’t bother to correct him, enjoying the sight of him intently sprinkling the steaming plates with a garnish of fresh herbs. She slips the folder with the application form under her placemat at the narrow bistro table that went wholly unused until Marlowe came along.

“Bone appetite!” he says, placing a savory bowl in front of her. The first bite proves he has come a long way from the avocado with chocolate sauce on toast he made the first night. Between mouthfuls, she tells him about the day, including Finn’s assessment of the screw and the steady stream of sales, but she deliberately omits the flashlight. Marlowe is eager to learn about his skills, and Cassandra feels obligated to protect him until she knows more about it. After they’ve finished their meal, she presents him with the manila folder.

“What’s this?”

“Our next step. Marlowe, you know I love having you, but you can’t hide up here forever. It’s not fair to either of us; we could get into a heap of trouble.”

He opens the folder and looks up at her with a shocked smile. “You mean…you would?”

“Of course I would! Vivian says Tuffy has your picture hanging in the station. I wouldn’t be surprised if he brought one to the post office and the general store, too.”

“No more errands then. How long does it take to become a foster parent?”

“I don’t know, but I’m going to apply. If they’ll have me, the only trouble I can foresee is that you’re not actually in foster care right now. I can’t very well request to be your guardian if you’re missing.”

“You mean…send me back?”

“I don’t want to, but we might not have another choice.”

Marlowe closes the folder and passes it back to her. His shoulders set, he clears the table and begins scrubbing the dishes in the sink. Cassandra never thought she’d be a parent, but something about this boy and their shared extrasensory perception binds them together. She sighs, hoping the promise of a more permanent home with her will be stronger than whatever has him spooked. As the drying rack gets full, Cassandra grabs a towel and begins putting things away.

Turning off the water, Marlowe looks at Cassandra with a tear threatening to fall down his cheek. “It’s so loud there. All those kids and all their sadness, I couldn’t bear it,” he says quietly.

“It wouldn’t be for long, and I can teach you how to protect yourself from the voices. Anyway, I won’t let you go until we know I can get you back. Let’s just see what happens. One step at a time, okay?”

“You promise you don’t want to send me away?”

“Never,” she says, hugging him and smoothing his hair. His little arms squeeze her tight before returning to the dishes.

After Marlowe’s gone down for his night watch, Cassandra changes into her pajamas and does her evening toilette. Brushing her long blonde hair, she stares at the empty mirror, watching the brush moving up and down as though floating in space. Most people see their reflection so often, they take it for granted. Whatever it is that lets Cassandra hear the stories imbued in objects also keeps her from seeing her own reflection. Others can, but she’s only ever caught one glimpse: in a silver looking glass that belonged to Evelyn Harrogate, a local heiress whose alleged murder had recently revealed itself to be an accident motivated by malice.

Cassandra reaches for the chain around her neck to worry the locket she wears while she considers how unsteady everything seems. Unlike Finn’s flashlight, the gold egg-shaped pendant which once belonged to her mother has always been a silent mystery. Engraved with intertwining vines and leaves, she’s never seen inside and, until recently, that brought her comfort; however, when she saw her reflection in Evelyn’s mirror, the other Cassandra opened it.

Curiosity getting the better of her, she pulls the looking glass from its hiding place in her bureau drawer. With a deep breath, she turns it over to see her reflection again. Smiling, the woman in the mirror stares at her before reaching for the pendant they both wear, opening it to reveal a pair of black and white photographs delicately shaded with watercolors. The child is clearly her mother, suggesting the man must be her grandfather. When her reflection opens its mouth to speak, Cassandra quickly sets the mirror face down with a clatter. Now unsettled by another of her habitual comforts, she mournfully removes the necklace and places it into the drawer along with the looking glass.

Sharing a bed with an eleven-year-old is the only drawback to their arrangement and, wanting him to have privacy, Cassandra has taken to sleeping on the sofa. Before sinking into the micro-suede cushions, she brews some Moonlight Elixir, a bespoke blend of valerian root, lavender, and passionflower from Rose Dawn’s Apothecary in nearby Ferndale. Sipping the fragrant tea, she sits in front of the trunk she uses as a coffee table to complete the foster application form and read through the rest of Vivian’s research, where she discovers another possible snag.

If Marlowe is going to stay permanently, there needs to be a bedroom for each of them. The flat is not large, but there is a storage area under the eaves and she remembers Finn saying could be another room. In theory, she could move things down to the cellar for storage, but that door has never been opened. Sealed shut when she arrived, she had Finn leave it that way since she barely had enough money for the main floor. Now that she can afford the additional renovation work, it seems it will cost her an honest conversation with Finn instead.

Warmed by the tea and numbed by bureaucracy, Cassandra nestles into the cushions and draws a fuzzy blanket over her. Slipping into a deep sleep, her dreams soon transport her back into the trenches from the flashlight. The air around is thick with smoke, gunfire whizzes overhead, and the lilting music box melody she knows so well plays languidly, the typically happy notes mournful against the violent onslaught. Using the flashlight, Cassandra tries to remain present in the vision while looking around for clues. Sweeping the torch back and forth, she still can’t make out other soldiers, but spots a few wooden crates. The beam passes over stenciled letters on the side and the sight takes her breath away: “VOSS SUPPLY.”

Sitting up with a shock, she is back in her lounge and Marlowe has a gentle hand on her shoulder. “What is it? Is everything okay?”

“I’m sorry to startle you, but I heard you moaning, and it is nearly sunrise. Were you dreaming about the battlefield and the soldiers?”

“You found the flashlight! I should have warned you to leave it be—I don’t know what secrets it holds.”

“I figured it out. Come down, I’ll show you.”

Despite her habit of starting the day with tea, she forgoes brewing a pot to follow him to the keeping room where Finn’s flashlight once again illuminates the now familiar silhouette on the wall next to the basement door, the soldiers now running through swirls of mist.

“Whoever it belonged to was betrayed and their entire unit was massacred as a result. Terrible story, but that’s not what had me worried. You said Mr. Finn was sure the gold screw didn’t come from the alley door?”

“That’s right. He checked the hinges and the new latch. Why?”

“Because I think they’re coming from the other door.”

“They?”

“While I was watching the flashlight, I heard a scraping noise. At first, I thought it was part of the vision, but then Gus was pawing at the door and I heard the little ping when a new screw hit the floor.”

Cassandra turns off the flashlight, returning it to the mantle next to the compass before inspecting the paint-crusted door. “It’s still sealed. I don’t see anywhere a screw could have come through.”

“Something down there is trying to get our attention.” Marlowe’s young face is at odds with his very mature assessments. “Gus-Gus, will you show them to her?” Her rotund orange feline familiar meows from the center of the pine table, moving his paws aside to reveal a pair of golden screws. “If you look closely, you can make out the letters E.V.—do they mean anything to you?”

Cassandra squints and, sure enough, there are her grandfather’s initials in the same font as from the crate in her dream. Her head spinning with realizations, she slides into a chair as Marlowe eyes her worriedly, unsure what to make of her emotional state.

“Those are my grandfather’s initials. Elias Voss. If you remember, they were on Edwin’s compass, too. I’m not sure what else you saw in the torch light, but I spotted crates stenciled with Voss Supply. It would seem all three objects are connected to him somehow.”

Before Marlowe can respond, a key turns in the door’s latch and Finn enters from the alley. At the unexpected sight of Cassandra already at the table, he stops short. Spotting the blonde boy in the corner, the pink bakery box in his hand drops to the floor with a thud. He sputters for a moment before turning to leave.

“Finn Harrison, you stop right there! You will not walk away angry; sit down at this table, we are going to talk.” Finn’s thick hand pushes the door closed, slowly balling into a fist which he thumps against the wood. Turning to Marlowe, Cassandra’s voice is calm, “Would you please brew some tea upstairs? I think we could use a pot of Kenyan Black.”

Wordlessly, the boy slips from the keeping room and his footsteps soon muffle, the noise insulation Finn designed for her flat proving its value yet again. Stooping to pick up the box of pastry, he nudges it onto the edge of the table, his eyes still not meeting hers.

“Will you sit, please?” Shaking his head, Finn perches against the wall, glaring at her. “Look, I’m genuinely sorry, Finn. I didn’t like lying to you, but also I knew you’d react this way.”

“What do you know about him? Where did he come from?”

“He’s a runaway, he was sleeping in the alley behind the shop.”

“And he broke in? Is that what happened to the back door? Christ, you have to think about your safety. A friend of Vivian’s, my ass!”

“The door was genuinely loose, he didn’t force it.” Finn inches forward and picks at the knot of string to open the pink box. Pulling out a bear claw, he takes a large bite and gestures for her to continue. “He came in when he heard the wedding dress screaming. Remember it, from the steamer trunk? He can hear them, too.”

Finn chokes down a bit of cinnamon covered dough, his voice hoarse. “You cannot be serious. Flaunting child labor laws and harboring a fugitive? This isn’t you!”

“It is now!” her tone is so sharp, he winces. “Look, I’m not going to fight with you about him. He’s staying. I know I have a lot to explain, but let’s start with you and me. I suspect you’ve been jealous, thinking there was a man in my life.”

“I was right!”

“Or you were off by a decade,” Cassandra teases. “But, as it happens, he’s the closest thing I’ll have to a man in my bed. Ever. I should have been honest with you a long time ago, but I kept telling myself that somehow you already knew.”

Setting the rest of the bear claw on the top of the box, Finn wipes his fingers on his jeans with a deep sigh. Pulling out a chair and taking a seat at the table, his eyes are serious, “I’m not your…type, am I?”

“In many ways, you are. You are kind, caring, and generous. It’s just the being a man part that’s a sticking point for me.”

“Well, this does explain a lot. I never wanted to push you, but I could tell there was some reason. I figured it was me. I feel like an idiot, I mean I—”

“No, I’m the one who should be embarrassed. From the day we met I knew I could trust you, but still I kept this part of me secret because I was scared that it would change things between us,” she reaches across the table, clasping his hand in hers. “You’re my family, I hope you know that. You’ve always been here for me, and I’m sorry I wasn’t honest with you sooner. I love you dearly…I just like to think of you more like a brother.”

“A very handsome brother?”

“Oh yes, of course. The bee’s knees.”

Finn smiles warmly, squeezing her fingers. “Okay, sis, then what on earth do you think you’re doing hiding that kid up there?”

“He’s staying out of sight while I look into what it will take to keep him here legally. That’s what Vivian brought me, by the way, she’s been helping me look into becoming a foster parent. When I get approved, I can petition to be his guardian.”

“Is he the same kid from the fliers at the sheriff’s station?” Cassandra nods and Finn sucks in a deep breath. “You’re playing with fire, you know that, don’t you? If Tuffy catches word—” Marlowe appears in the doorway, brass tray balanced on his small hands. He gently sets it on the table at Cassandra’s elbow, the porcelain and silver rattling softly, before he steps back to leave. Finn stops him by standing, clearing his throat, and extending a hand. “I’m Finn. And you are?”

“My government name is Jacob, but I prefer Marlowe.”

With a nod, they shake hands before Finn lifts the bear claw and opens the box, offering Marlowe his pick of the pastries. He excitedly grabs a raspberry Danish and Cassandra pours them all cups of tea. For a few minutes, the only sounds are chewing, milk and sugar plunking into the steaming tea, and spoons clinking against China cups and saucers. Licking his fingers clean of the bear claw, Finn notices the two screws.

“Another one? Where are they coming from?” he asks. “You’re not taking things apart, are you, young man?”

“We think they’re from the cellar door,” Cassandra says.

“The crew painted over it, no way that could happen.”

“I saw it,” Marlow pipes up. “I watched it come right out of the wood all by itself.”

“Look, kid, I can ignore that kind of cockamamie story when it comes from her, but you’re still young enough to be told that there’s no such thing as crying compasses or screaming wedding dresses.”

“I know you don’t believe us, but what if we could prove it to you?” Finn raises an eyebrow and takes another doughnut from the box. Cassandra retrieves the flashlight from the mantel. “I’m sorry for peeking, but you left the toolbox open and this caught my eye. I think it’s got a story to tell.”

“That thing? It belonged to my grandfather, but it never worked. He died in the war so I didn’t know him; I got a box of his things after Gran passed.”

“Do you know more about what happened to him?” Cassandra asks.

“Ambush. His entire unit was lost, the only survivor went on to become a state senator—Sanders, served six or seven terms, I think. There’s a bunch of stuff named after him.”

“That’s what I saw,” Marlowe says with a smile. “Can I show him?”

Cassandra hands the flashlight over and Marlowe moves closer to Finn. Holding the torch, he flips the switch and a beam of light appears on the opposite wall. In the glowing circle, shadowy fog rolls and silhouettes of soldiers dodge bullets like a scene from an old film. Finn’s jaw drops, his reluctance faltering in the face of evidence that there is more to this world than he can understand.

“What the hell?”

“I think that lone survivor actually set the whole thing up, so he could be a hero,” Marlowe says solemnly, patting the burly man on the shoulder. “Maybe so he could become a senator.”

Finn reaches for the flashlight and, out of Marlowe’s hand, the light vanishes. “How is this possible?”

“I’m not sure, but I’m starting to think this isn’t random,” Cassandra says. “The compass, the screws, and now the flashlight—each one has a tie to my grandfather.”

“I thought you didn’t know anything about him?”

“I still don’t, but his name keeps popping up.” Clearing her throat, she looks at Finn, “Big brother, I have a business proposal for you. Do you think we could squeeze another bedroom in upstairs?”

Marlowe’s grin is brighter than the torchlight when Finn nods, “I can start on the permits today. What are you going to do with all the stuff you have stored up there?”

“Well, I think it’s about time we figured out what’s in that basement, don’t you? What will it take to get that door open?”

---

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