They were searching and they didn't find anything because Daniel buried it 2 and 1/2 ft down at the base of a filled sinkhole wrapped in plastic. And then he told you in the only language he thought was safe exactly where to look. I paused. He was smarter than they expected. Clare started the engine.
He always was, she said. We were halfway down the road before either of us spoke again. There's one more thing, she said. What? The last entry in the notebook.
I waited. He wrote it 4 days before he died. She kept her eyes on the road. It said, "I think they know about the unit." Moving final copies to the yard this week. If anything happens the ground, tell Clare the ground.
The road was dark and empty ahead of us. He wrote that 4 days before his heart attack, I said. Yes. And 3 days later, he told you. If anything happens to me, don't trust the ground.
Yes. She turned onto Alderton Road. The house was dark. The tarp over the sinkhole was a pale shape in the headlights. He was scared, she said.
At the end, he was genuinely scared. And he still didn't run. She pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine. We sat in the dark for a moment. No, she said.
He didn't run. She looked at the house at the garage at the tarp. He stayed. He finished. He made sure I'd have what I needed.
She opened the car door. Even if he didn't make it to see it found, I helped her pack a bag. She called her sister. She moved efficiently without drama. Picking up exactly what she needed and nothing extra.
Before we left, she went to the kitchen and picked up the brass key from the table. She held it for a moment. Then she put it in her pocket. At the door, she stopped and looked back through the house toward the kitchen window. Toward the backyard, where the tarp was still out there in the dark over the open hole in the ground.
He told me not to trust it, she said quietly. But he put everything he had into it. She turned off the light. I think that's the most Daniel thing he ever did. She drove to her sisters.