Leo closed the notebook. He looked at the water. It was calm again, holding its secrets close.
Leo opened the first one. The handwriting was small, urgent, pressed hard into the page. Dates from twenty years ago. Coordinates. Names. Deposits. Withdrawals. Ledgers, but not for money. For people. Falcon Lake
Most tourists came for the trophy bass—the double-digit giants that lurked in the flooded brush. But Leo came for the quiet. And lately, the quiet had been speaking to him. Leo closed the notebook