Chapter 2 - The Color Beneath the Broken Wood
Owen barely spoke during the drive.
He sat beside me clutching one half of the boat while I held the other.
At a red light, I turned the broken piece over.
That was when I noticed the color.
The outside of Owen’s model was unfinished cedar.
Inside the broken grain was a thin layer of dark navy-blue paint.
Beneath that—
a streak of faded red.
I stopped breathing for a second.
“Where did you get this wood?”
Owen looked at the piece in his lap.
“Garage.”
“Your dad’s garage?”
He nodded.
“Was it lying around?”
“No.”
That answer came too quickly.
I looked at him.
He immediately lowered his eyes.
“Owen.”
His fingers tightened around the little broken hull.
“Daddy said I wasn’t supposed to touch that box.”
“What box?”
“The long one behind his workbench.”
My pulse began climbing.
Three years earlier, Owen’s mother—my daughter Claire—had died in a boating accident on Lake Mercer.
Her boat had been painted navy blue.
A deep, almost-black marine blue I had chosen with her myself.
The broken model in my hand suddenly felt heavier.
I kept my voice steady.
“What happened when Natalie saw you with the wood?”
Owen hesitated.
“She got mad.”
“Before today?”
He nodded.
“What did she say?”
He stared through the windshield.
Then whispered:
“She said Dad was supposed to get rid of the red part.”
I turned toward him.
“The red part?”
Owen immediately looked frightened.
“Am I in trouble?”
“No.”
“Dad said Grandpa can’t know.”
That was the moment the Easter fight stopped looking like a punishment over a child running indoors.
Because Owen hadn’t only taken a piece of scrap wood.
He had taken something his father had specifically hidden from me.
May you like
And whatever the red mark meant, Natalie already knew about it.
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