Read Chapter 25: The Confrontation

The footsteps came up the front porch before the bell rang, heavy and deliberate, crunching through the fresh powder. Maren had been in the kitchen, prepping for the evening's workshop session—Julian was teaching a scene-structure class at seven, and she'd promised hot cider and proofreading services to the seven guests currently occupying the inn's rooms.

She wiped her hands on her apron and opened the door.

The man standing there was maybe fifty, with silver-streaked hair and a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He stamped snow off his boots and extended a hand.

"Afternoon. Name's Daniel Cross. I'm a freelance journalist—been following the resurgence of interest in Julian Marlowe's work. His father's disappearance was covered pretty heavily at the time, but there's a new angle now, with Walter's journal being found." He gestured at the inn behind her. "I heard he's been staying here. Hosting workshops, even. I'd love to profile him."

Maren hesitated. Something prickled at the back of her neck, a sensation she couldn't quite name. But the inn was a business now, and journalists meant exposure, and exposure meant bookings.

"Come in," she said. "He's in the parlor, prepping for tonight. I'll let him know you're here."

Daniel Cross stepped inside, shrugging off his coat. "Appreciate it. I've read his novels for years—this is a real honor."

She led him down the hallway, past the dining room where two of the guests were arguing quietly over a manuscript draft, toward the parlor. Julian was at the writing desk by the window, backlit by the gray afternoon light, a red pen in his hand and a stack of student pages in front of him.

"Julian," she said. "There's a journalist here to see you. Daniel Cross, he says he wants to do a profile."

Julian looked up, and Maren saw the color drain from his face. His hand went still on the page.

Daniel Cross stepped around her, extending his hand. "Mr. Marlowe. It's a genuine pleasure. I've been following your father's case since the eighties—when the news broke that he'd disappeared, I was one of the first writers on the scene. I have to say, this new development—the cabin, the journal—it changes the story entirely."

But Julian wasn't looking at his hand. He was looking at the man's face, his eyes narrowing.

"Daniel Cross," he repeated, slow and flat. His voice dropped. "You wrote that piece in the *Northeast Review*."

Maren felt the temperature in the room shift. Julian's jaw was tight, his shoulders squared.

"I wrote several pieces on your father," Cross said, folding his arms. "Yes."

"No. You wrote the one that said Walter Marlowe abandoned his family because he was mentally unstable. You quoted anonymous sources who claimed he'd been in and out of treatment. That piece—" Julian's voice cracked. "My mother read it to me when I was twelve. You made me think my father was *ashamed* of us. That he'd rather be anywhere than with me."

Daniel Cross's face flickered—a twitch, a recalibration. He took a step back and let out a breath, the pleasant smile dissolving into something flatter.

"That piece was written under a pen name," he said. "My real work—the work for the last decade—has been in private investigation."

Maren's stomach dropped. "What?"

"Cross is a professional credential I've used off and on," the man said, meeting Julian's eyes. "Right now, I'm not here for a profile. I'm here because I was hired to evaluate your suitability as a custodial parent."

The silence that followed was absolute. Through the window, the snow fell in a thick, unhurried curtain.

Julian took a step forward. His voice was dangerously quiet. "Who hired you?"

"I think you know."

"My ex-wife." The words came out like a verdict. "She's trying to take Lily."

Daniel Cross spread his hands, a gesture that was almost apologetic. "What I can tell you is, she's preparing a case. She needs documentation of instability. Evidence of erratic behavior, inability to maintain structure, unsafe living conditions. She hired me six weeks ago, when she learned you'd left the city and moved up here."

Maren's hands were shaking. She'd read that name—*Cross*—in the margins of the burned journal, in a list of Walter's. Her forefather, her own history, repeating itself in front of her.

"Six weeks," she said, hearing her own voice sound far away. "You've been here for six weeks?"

"Off and on, yes. I was in town the night of the search party. I watched the sheriff's vehicles go up the mountain." He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a small notebook. "I've documented the state of the inn. The workshops, the guests. The fact that you're running a commercial operation out of a property that used to be a private residence. The fact that Mr. Marlowe left guests stranded during a blizzard to go hiking in dangerous conditions on a personal errand."

"That's not—" Maren started, but Julian cut her off.

"Get out." His voice cracked like ice. "Get out of this house right now."

"Mr. Marlowe, I understand this is—"

"*Get out.*"

Julian crossed to the door in three strides and yanked it open, snow blowing in on the draft. Daniel Cross sighed, tucked the notebook back into his pocket, and walked past him without another word. The front door slammed behind him, rattling the windows.

Maren stood frozen in the middle of the parlor. The sound of the slam seemed to hang in the air, along with the silence that followed it. Somewhere in the dining room, a guest coughed.

Julian turned to her. His face was a mask of something she hadn't seen before—not the guarded distance of their early weeks together, not the raw vulnerability of the cabin. This was something hollowed out, scraped clean.

"He's been watching me," Julian said. "For six weeks. He saw everything. The breakdown at the cabin. The tears. The—" He gestured at himself, at the room, at the life they'd started to build. "This. All of it. She's going to use it all."

"She can't—" Maren started.

"She can. She will." Julian sat down, heavily, on the edge of the writing desk. "I left my career. I left the city. I came here chasing my father's ghost because I couldn't face the fact that I failed as a husband, and now she's going to prove I'm failing as a father too."

Julian buried his face in his hands. Maren stepped forward, her heart pounding, not sure what to say, not sure what could be said. She thought of the bank statements she'd shoved in a drawer, the December 31 deadline she hadn't told him about, the way the winter was closing in around them both.

"Lily is twelve," Julian said, his voice muffled. "She's the only good thing I've ever done. And I might never see her again."

Outside, the snow kept falling, soft and indifferent, burying the tracks of the man who'd come to take everything he had left.