PART 1: THE DISCOVERY AT COOPER LAKE
I drove out to the lakeside cabin at Cooper Lake on a fog-draped Tuesday morning because the porch overhang on my late wife’s home had developed a slow leak. Susan had been gone for three long years, yet the lakeside retreat remained the single sanctuary where time stood completely still. Her favorite mug was still hanging on its brass hook beside the farmhouse sink, and her bright green raincoat remained draped over the oak rack near the back door.
When I rounded the final bend of the damp gravel driveway, my heart dropped because a large moving van was backed directly up to the front porch steps. I honestly questioned if I had taken a wrong turn on the winding county road until I saw my son-in-law’s parents carrying heavy cardboard boxes through the front door.
Greg Lawson set down a heavy bronze table lamp on the porch deck, popped open a cold silver can of beer, and smiled widely at me.
“Morning, Walter,” Greg said with a causal wave.
“What in the world are you doing inside my house, Greg?” I asked, stepping out of my truck into the chilly morning air.
