Page 28 of Christmas at Wolf Creek

“Is it?” I’d challenged, holding up a pinch of the ashes. “Because I’m not convinced.”

They thought I was paranoid, of course, Grief-stricken, and suspicious to the point of desecration. But I knew Tomas—knew his games, his manipulations. Faking his death wouldn’t even make my top ten list of his most outrageous deceptions.

Now the truth sits before me in sealed laboratory results.

I take a long sip of Scotch, savoring the burn. Part of me doesn’t want to know. If I’m right—if these aren’t Tomas’s ashes—it means he’s still out there somewhere, watching us dance to his tune. If I’m wrong... then I’ve violated his remains for nothing.

“Fuck it,” I mutter, grabbing the letter opener from my desk drawer. With one quick movement, I slice through the envelope and pull out the crisp pages inside.

My eyes scan the document, medical terminology blurring until I conclude:

“DNA analysis confirms the submitted sample matches reference sample ‘MacGallan, Tomas’ with 99.97% probability.”

I read it three times to be sure. The ashes are his. Tomas MacGallan, my father, is truly dead.

I should feel vindicated, or at least relieved to have an answer. Instead, a hollow feeling spreads through my chest. For weeks, I’ve clung to this conspiracy theory, convinced he was orchestrating events from the shadows. The truth is more mundane: he’s gone, and we’re left to make sense of the mess he created.

My phone buzzes with a text from Kane: “Tree is up. Lodge looks like Christmas threw up everywhere. When are you coming back?”

I smile despite myself, picturing Kane surrounded by tinsel and blinking lights, pretending to hate every minute while secretly enjoying having a family to celebrate with.

I text back: “Soon. Wrapping things up here. How’s Ella?”

His response comes quickly: “Good. Jumpy. Something spooked her at the tree lighting. Staying at the lodge with Nora.”

That catches my attention. Ella doesn’t spook easily, not after everything she’s been through. I make a mental note to ask more when I return.

I gather the DNA report and slide it into my desk drawer, locking it with a key. No need for the othersto know I went this far. Let them believe I accepted Tomas’s death without question.

Standing at the window, I look out over the estate grounds, snow-covered and peaceful in the moonlight. So different from the mountains of Alberta, yet both places bear Tomas’s imprint—properties acquired, fortified, and filled with secrets.

The irony doesn’t escape me. I spent years trying to prove myself to a man who never intended to acknowledge me as his heir, and now that he’s gone, I’ve inherited not just his business empire but his scattered children. A family cobbled together from his various affairs and deceptions.

My phone buzzes again. Kane: “Nora asks when Uncle Declan is coming back. Says you promised to teach her chess.”

I smile, feeling the weight on my shoulders lighten somewhat. “Tell her three days. And to practice her opening moves.”

I drain my glass and set it down with finality. Tomas is dead. The DNA proves it. Whatever game we’re playing now, it’s ours—not his. And the stakes are higher than any corporate takeover or business merger. We’re building something he never valued: a family.

Time to focus on the living, not the dead.

I pick up the folder containing the estate paperwork that Connor and I have been sortingthrough. Tomas left properties scattered across four continents, some under shell companies, others through proxies. Untangling the web has been a full-time job.

One document catches my eye—the deed to a small cabin in northern Quebec. Nothing special about it on the surface, but the purchase date stands out: just three months before Tomas’s death. Why acquire a remote property when he was supposedly battling cancer? It doesn’t fit.

I set it aside to investigate later. Maybe my suspicions aren’t entirely unfounded after all. Even with the DNA confirmation, there are too many loose ends, too many coincidences.

My phone rings, startling me from my thoughts. The caller ID shows an unfamiliar number with a Russian country code.

I hesitate, thumb hovering over the screen. It’s nearly 3 AM—no legitimate business call comes at this hour, especially not from Russia. Yet something compels me to answer.

“MacGallan,” I say, my voice deliberately neutral.

Silence greets me, then a soft exhale. The connection is poor, with a faint crackle of static.

“Who is this?” I demand, unease crawling up my spine.

“A friend,” comes the reply, the voice male, heavily accented. “A friend who knows the truth about yoursister.”