Tim tied the police boat to the dock. McIntyre drew her weapon and a flashlight, Tim did the same, and with the two of them in the lead, we ascended the steps to the lodge’s front porch.

All the while, I hammered away at my memories of Bram. What was the significance of this place? Proximity to Heart Island wasn’t enough of a motivating factor. Why come here? Abe and I never spent time in a cottage in the woods or went to sleepaway camp. With its Canadiana style of architecture, all cedar shakes, swooping roof, and fieldstone, the lodge looked nothing like the homes in Swanton. The Bram I knew was meticulous in his planning. If he’d chosen Deer Island, there was a reason.

The decking creaked underfoot, and when Mac got to the lodge’s massive door, she lifted two fingers. Stop. Hang back. Tim turned his head to look at me, and I registered his expression of surprise a second before I realized what I was hearing. Bird cries. An osprey, perched on the roof above us, shattered the silence with a strident screech. I scanned the woods for movement or a flash of color. Tim raised his eyebrows, and I nodded. All clear. McIntyre pushed open the door.

The lodge must have been impressive once, when the paint wasn’t peeling and the woodwork wasn’t cloaked in dust. It had soaring ceilings, and hulking beams some interior designers would surely sell their firstborn to acquire. Now, it looked like a frat house left to rot. Several windows were wide open, others smashed. Shards of glass, dried leaves, and crumpled beer cans littered the floor, and I was pretty sure the animal droppings scattered about the room didn’t come from a dog. The place was dark and filthy and stank of mold. I flicked the nearest light switch. Nothing.

We spread out to search, Tim and I going one way while Mac went the other, all of us trying not to disturb the debris on the floor. The place felt unoccupied to me. Hollow. Despite all the rubble, it lacked substance. I felt sure there were no bodies inside this building but our own. None that were breathing, anyway.

McIntyre was down in the kitchen when Tim and I got to the second floor. There were bedrooms up there, lots of them. We searched them one by one. Because Tim was in front of me, he entered the room at the end of the hall first. “There’s something in here,” he said, and I called down for Mac to come upstairs. I barely needed to raise my voice. The silence on Deer Island was absolute.

McIntyre made her way up the cracked and crooked staircase to meet us. Neither Tim nor I had approached the object that lay on hardwood planks in the center of the near-empty room, illuminated by the beam from his flashlight. Tim didn’t understand what we were looking at, but I did, and it paralyzed me. The object was the same size and shape as the cat in the woods. This time it wasn’t wrapped in plastic, but cloth.