Page 3 of The Forbidden Summer (Pathfinders Lake #2)

Van

I catch up with Père outside the shed, the air thick with the smell of earth and old wood. Dust billows from the open door as he pushes it wider, but inside, it’s darker than I’d like. Too dark to easily spot spiders, mice, or worse.

The shed is ancient, its weathered boards creaking in protest with every gust of wind. There are too many places for things to hide in there—creepy corners, hidden shelves, and piles of forgotten tools that hadn’t seen the light of day in years.

“You coming or not?” Père calls from inside, his voice breaking through my momentary paralysis.

“I’m coming,” I mutter, though every instinct screams at me to turn around.

Père’s already inside, rummaging through the clutter. “Try not to step on anything,” he warns with a grin, clearly enjoying my discomfort.

I step cautiously over a pile of old rakes, trying to ignore the sound of something scuttling across the floor in the corner.

I can’t help but glance down, half-expecting a rat or something worse to appear.

“You sure this place isn’t haunted?” I ask, trying to mask the tension in my voice with humor.

Père chuckles from the other side of the shed. “Only if you’re scared of old wood and dust. Just grab the poles from that shelf there.”

The shelf is so cluttered that I can’t see where the poles start and the rest of the junk ends. I reach out, my knuckles brushing against something soft—something that moves—and yank my hand back with a startled gasp.

“Everything okay over there?” Père asks, not even looking up.

“Yeah.” I try to steady my breath. “Just... wasn’t expecting that.”

Reaching again, this time with more caution, my fingers brush the poles, and I pull them free, giving a small sigh of relief. “Got ’em,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel.

“Good. Now let’s get out of here before you start seeing things,” Père jokes, stepping out into the light, clearly unbothered by the shadows and the old shed’s creepy vibes.

“Hey, Cap. What’s in that old trunk?” I ask, eyeing the weathered chest tucked in the far corner of the shed. It’s been there for as long as I can remember, covered in dust and cobwebs, like some forgotten relic from the past.

“That old thing?” He glances back at the trunk, then at me, a small twist tugging at his lips. “Not much worth digging into. Been sitting there longer than I’ve been alive, probably.”

“Doesn’t look like something that should just be left sitting here,” I press, curiosity getting the best of me. There’s something about it that feels significant. Like it holds some kind of secret. Maybe priceless antiques?

Père gives a short chuckle and wipes his hands on his jeans. “If you’re looking for treasure, you’re better off going out on the lake. Besides, I don’t even have a key for it.”

With one last lingering glance at the trunk, I swallow my curiosity and close the door behind me with relief. “Alright, Cap, let’s get this fishing trip started.”

“That’s the spirit, son. Let’s go see if the fish are biting.”

The sun is now high enough to chase away the lingering morning chill.

As we make our way toward the dock, the mystery of that damn trunk still gnaws at me, haunting the back of my mind like an itch I can’t quite scratch.

I could bust the lock with my axe. Hell, the trunk looks old enough that it might crumble to dust if I even sit on it.

The more I think about it, the more I want to know what’s in there.

Père tosses me a fishing rod as we reach the edge of the dock. “You ready to catch something worth bragging about?”

I grip the rod, trying to push the thought of the trunk aside. “Yeah.” I force a smile and focus on the water. “Let’s catch some fish.”

We cast our lines. The quiet lapping of the water against the dock fills the stillness between us.

Père glances at me out of the corner of his eye, sensing something’s off. “What’s got you so distracted, son?”

I turn my gaze back to the water, watching the ripples form around my line. “Nothing. Just thinking.”

“Thinking about what?” he presses, his voice softer now, as if he can sense the deeper current behind my words.

I hesitate for a moment, my mind still drifting back to the shed. “Just... you ever wonder what’s hidden in the past? What gets left behind, just sitting there?”

Père’s expression tightens, a flicker of caution in his eyes. “Sometimes,” he says warily, “but sometimes, it’s better to let things stay buried. You never know what you’ll find when you go digging.”

If I force the issue, would I be opening a door to something that isn’t meant to be uncovered?

Hell, that just makes it more exciting. I totally blame those Hardy Boys chapter books Père made me read when I was little. One way or another, I’ll find a way into that trunk.

Either it’ll be a dud, filled with moth-eaten quilts and old clothes, or it’ll be the most exciting thing I do this summer.