The bell above the café door jingled as Ronny and Maya stepped inside.
It was nearly 10:00 a.m.
Ronny scanned the tables. There were a few old-timers sipping coffee over
folded newspapers, a young couple sharing pancakes, and one man sitting alone
in the back corner with a ball cap pulled low and a worn green jacket zipped up
to the chin.
He looked up as they approached.
“You Caldwell?” he asked.
“I am. This is Ronny Ellis,” she replied.
The man stood halfway and shook their hands. “Gideon Dawes.”
He gestured to the bench across from him. “Have a seat. You came all the way
from Henderson—so this better be worth it.”
Ronny gave a small smile. “We’re hoping it is.”
They sat.
Up close, Gideon looked to be in his late thirties. Tall,
broad-shouldered, with a pale scar above his eyebrow that disappeared into his
hairline. His eyes were sharp but wary—like a man used to spotting trouble
before it arrived.
A waitress appeared with a coffee pot. He nodded. “Fill ’em all.”
Once she left, Gideon leaned forward. “So. What do you know about my
grandfather?”
Maya reached into her bag and pulled out the photo. She slid it across
the table.
Gideon looked down at it. His jaw tightened.
“That’s him,” he said after a long pause. “Middle row, left side. Josiah
Dawes. And that barn—that’s the one on the old family land. We called it the
salt barn.”
Ronny watched him carefully. “Do you recognize the other men?”
Gideon’s fingers hovered over the image.
“This one,” he pointed to the man in the center, “is Wayne Ellis, right?
Your grandfather?”
“I think so,” Ronny said. “We found this photo in a box buried near
Rayburn Creek. Along with a journal. And a map.”
That caught Gideon’s attention.
“Margie’s map?”
“You know about it?”
He nodded slowly. “My grandfather didn’t talk about the war. Didn’t talk
about the Depression. Didn’t even talk about family. But once—just once—when I
was sixteen, I asked him about a box my dad found buried in the root cellar. It
had a key, a ledger book, and a newspaper clipping from 1939. He took it from
me without a word. Burned it in the fire pit.”
Ronny and Maya exchanged a glance.
“He said there were things in our bloodline better left where they were
buried,” Gideon continued. “And then he told me this: ‘If you ever find her
name, you run in the other direction.’”
“Her name?” Maya asked.
Gideon looked directly at her. “Margie Dalton.”
Ronny leaned forward. “We believe she’s the one who made the original
map. She vanished in 1939. We think she was trying to expose something—maybe
tied to land deals, bootlegging, even buried evidence.”
Gideon didn’t blink. “You’re right. But you’re not ready.”
“Ready for what?”
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a battered and stained envelope.
He placed it gently on the table.
“I’ve been waiting twenty years to pass this on. I didn’t know who, or
when. But after I got your message—and the other one—I knew it was time.”
Ronny frowned. “The other one?”
Gideon’s jaw clenched. “Man in a dark coat. Didn’t give a name. Asked if
I had anything from my grandfather’s time with Collier and Ellis. Offered me
five thousand dollars for any documents. Said it was just for 'historical
preservation.'”
“Did you give him anything?” Maya asked.
“Hell no,” Gideon said. “But I think he’s watching me now. So whatever I
give you, I can’t keep. And I don’t want my name in this.”
He pushed the envelope forward. “Open it later. Not here.”
Ronny took it with both hands. It felt heavier than it looked.
Gideon stood, drained the last of his coffee, and slid a twenty under his
plate.
“Be careful,” he said. “Whatever’s in that envelope—it’s not just
history. It’s leverage.”
He tipped his hat and left the café without another word.
Ronny and Maya sat in silence for a long moment.
Then Maya whispered, “You think this goes deeper than some buried box and
a missing girl?”
Ronny looked down at the envelope.
“I think we just got pulled into something no one ever wanted us to
find.”
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