11-Lila Brody
CLAIRE
Finding the Brody farmhouse wasn’t as easy as following an address.
The county file only said: “Tree line, outskirts of town.” That could mean a dozen different backroads—most without signs, some ending in dead ends.
I went back to the inn to get my car, since walking wasn’t an option. I drove through Grayhaven’s narrow roads, trusting my sense of direction more than the map.
The farther I went, the quieter it became. Houses grew fewer, then vanished. Tall pines crowded the gravel road, their shadows stretching across it like guards
By the time I found the house, the sky was already turning dark. It stood alone, a two-story building faded to gray. The shutters hung loose like they were too tired to hold on.
Maybe the house had been painted white once, but now only patches of paint clung to the wood. The yard was overgrown and weeds were pushing through the fence as if no one had cared for a long time.
I turned off the car and sat for a moment. The quiet out here felt heavier than in town. No voices, no murmurs—just the trees moving against each other in the wind.
The porch groaned under my steps. I lifted the brass knocker and hit it twice.
For a while, nothing happened. Then I heard faint shuffling inside.
The door cracked open barely an inch, and I caught the pale glimmer of an eye. A girl’s voice filled with grief said :
“What do you want?”
I kept my tone calm. “My name is Claire Monroe. I’m a private detective. I came about Mason.”
The crack didn’t widen. In fact, I saw the shadow of her hand tighten on the doorframe like she might slam it shut.
“Sorry we're not interested ” she said. “We don’t need gawkers. Just leave us alone.”
She was already going back inside,so, I leaned closer “I’m not here for a headline, Lila. I’m not here to gawk. I know the county wrote ‘accident’ in that file. And I also know accidents don’t fill pages with missing details.”
There was silence
“They want you to believe Mason just… slipped. Like he didn’t matter. But I don’t believe that,” I pressed. “I think Mason is involved in more than they’re willing to admit. And I think you know that too.”
The silence went on for a while I could almost hear her breathing on the other side.
Finally, she spoke “You really think it wasn’t an accident?”
“I don’t just think,” I said. “I know.”
That did it. The lock rattled. The door opened a little more, then I finally saw her
Lila Brody. Mason's twin sister .
Her face was exactly like Mason’s —same jaw, same eyes, though hers were rimmed red and swollen from crying. Her hair was tied back loosely, strands falling wild, as though she’d stopped caring weeks ago. She looked exhausted.
She studied me another moment, then stepped aside. “Fine. Come in.”
The air inside was filled smell of dust. It was a home, but one abandoned by the idea of comfort. Family photos lined the mantel—Mason and Lila as kids, a smiling woman who had to be their mother.
Lila gestured to the couch, then drifted into the kitchen. A kettle rattled, water poured, cupboard doors clicked. When she returned, she carried two mismatched cups.
She set one in front of me, then curled into the chair opposite, wrapping her hands around her own cup.
Finally, I said, “I want to start simple. Tell me about Mason. Not what happened to him. Who he was.”
Her eyes flickered to mine, she was surprised. Then down to her cup. “You don’t want the details of… that?”
“Not yet. The reports tell me what they want me to believe. I want to hear who he really was, from you.”
She drew in a shaky breath. “He was… steady. That’s the word I keep coming back to. People always said he had restless feet, but it wasn’t true. He worked. Hard.
After Mom passed, he kept us afloat. He worked a bit at the docks Any job he could find—hauling lumber, fixing boats, patching roofs. He hated the idea of owing anyone. Said Grayhaven had enough debts that never got paid.”
Her throat tightened. She stared . “But he wasn’t joyless. He laughed easy. He’d sing along to the radio, even when he didn’t know the words. Always humming, always moving his hands. Couldn’t sit still for long, but not because he was reckless. Just… full of energy.”
The corner of her mouth trembled, it was caught between a smile and sob.
“He loved fishing. Not eating it—just being on the water. Said it cleared his head. He’d come home soaked half the time, but he never complained.”
I nodded slowly. I wanted her to keep talking, to paint him piece by piece. People became clearer in the details, not the headlines.
“Did he have friends? A girl?”
“Plenty of friends. He wasn’t the type to be alone for long, though he always came back here in the end. No girl steady enough to mention.” She glanced at me, wary. “Why does that matter?”
“Because it tells me who might’ve known him best. Who might’ve seen what changed, if something did.”
Her jaw tightened. “Something did.”
I waited.
She swallowed, then whispered, “The nights. He started sneaking out. Thought I didn’t notice, but I did. Door creaking, boots on the porch. He’d come back hours later, wet sometimes, smelling weird. Still he wouldn’t explain.”
“Where was he going?”
Her eyes filled again. “The lighthouse. Always the lighthouse.”
I leaned back, considering. “ Why go there?”
“He used to help the old keeper” she said quickly, almost defensively. “Fixing stairs, hauling supplies. But after the keeper died, there wasn’t any reason. Still, Mason went. Like something pulled him there.”
Her fingers tightened around her mug until her knuckles whitened. “I asked him once. He just looked at me and said, ‘Some things you wouldn’t believe unless you saw.’ Then he laughed, but… it wasn’t real laughter.”
Her words were the kind people second-guess once they’re spoken, still I didn’t want her to retreat.
Finally, I said, “The county hasn’t given you anything, have they?”
Her laugh was bitter. “Nothing. Not even his clothes. Just a line in a report. Accident. Like that explains everything.”
I rolled my eyes before I could stop myself. “Typical. They want it closed and buried. Easier that way.”
Her hands shook. And the ea moved dangerously close to the rim. Suddenly the mug clattered to the table as her face crumpled.
I moved without thinking. I crossed the room and crouched beside her chair. She leaned into me right away, like she’d been waiting for someone to hold on to. Her sobs shook through me.
“He was all I had,” she cried. “He took care of us. And now—they’ve erased him, like he was nothing.”
I held her calmly. Sometimes grief didn’t need words, just space.
When her crying slowed, she pulled back. Her face was red and her sleeve was damp from wiping her eyes.
“There’s more,” she said in a rough whisper. “He kept drawing. Any bit of paper he found, he filled it with the same thing. Spirals. Over and over. He wouldn’t say why. Just told me it was important.”
She reached for the side table, slid open a drawer, and pulled out a folded paper. It was a pencil sketch, the lines pressed hard into the page. A spiral, tight at the center, spreading outward in uneven rings. Simple—but the longer I looked, the stranger it felt..
“He wouldn’t stop,” she said. “Like it was crawling under his skin.”
I studied it, then folded it carefully. “Thank you, Lila. This helps more than you know.”
I pulled a card from my pocket, scribbled my number on the back, and set it on the table. “If you think of anything else, day or night, call me. I know this wasn’t easy.”
Her fingers hovered over the card like she wasn’t sure she deserved to touch it. “Do you really think you’ll find out what happened?”
I met her eyes. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
Outside, the wind picked up through the trees, rattling the house like a warning. But I had what I needed. A spiral, a lighthouse, and a sister who still believed her brother mattered