Standard disclaimer: Read at your own risk. The excerpt that follows is of dubious quality. Please refrain from eye-rolling because, really, you've been warned.
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I sighed and picked up the newspaper, not daring to glance at the headline until I was slouched down into my green leather chair, the one piece of furniture I'd kept from my parent's house. Pokey springs and duct tape covered holes aside, it was the most comfortable place to recieve bad news. The date on the paper was October 3, 1998. Four days ago. I flipped it open and scanned it.
Nothing on the first page of interest. War in middle-east seemingly winding down, though I could vaguely remember seeing the same news the last time a paper had been pushed under my door five months ago. An article on an increasing number of accidental deaths was below the fold, "Accidental Deaths Beating Cancer," it claimed. I scanned it quickly, but saw nothing than concerned me specifically.
I flipped through the rest of the section quickly, scanning each article for my name, or the nickname the press had given me, but I found nothing. My heart began pounding faster until it was all I could hear, the blood swirling near my ears. Someone had shoved this under my door for a reason. I knew no one in the city, I had no friends, and certainly no family. There was some agenda here that wasn't clear. I tore the paper apart, pages flung around the room as I read. Miles lay on top of one of the discarded sections, purring, pleased with the new decorations.
Once I'd picked the paper apart, I went through it again, more slowly, reading each article with care, looking for the hidden message. It was two hours before I found what I was looking for.
In the entertainment section, third page, fourth column from the left. Next to an ad for a mattress sale, there was a starkly contrasted picture of an old man smoking a pipe. The caption read, "Wilhelm Pearce in his last known photograph." A short article followed, only two paragraphs long.
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Questions Linger Over Author's Estate
Less than a year after the apparent death of novelist, Wilhelm Pearce, his estate on the private island, Miska--located twenty miles off the coast of Bethel, Maine--sparks debate by area developers anxious to construct a resort on the site. Development for the tourist-friendly area is has been at an all-time high in the past five years, at the same time that local governments, facing pressure from environmental groups, have placed strict regulations protecting the coastline and putting ocean front land at a premium.
But questions remain whether the land is without an owner. One New York based development firm, Sawyer Incorporated, has already filed petitions to the court for auctioning the land after preliminary search for Pearce's family came up empty handed. A committee will review the petition later this month, although it
is expected the land will not be released for development until later next year.
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Wilhelm Pearce, I whispered, the name sliding over my tongue. I looked at the photo again, taking note of the tiny things in his face that were like my own. My great uncle. My grandmother's brother. The loner, the author. I didn't know much more about him than that. I had read his book when I was ten years old, desperate to feel closer to a family that didn't exsist anymore, except in my head. But the book was lost as I made the moves between foster families and then forgotten in the face of all those funerals. Wilhelm Pearce, hmm.
I stared off into space for a while, the article dangling loosely in my hand, my mind turning posibilities into hopes. An island, a private island where my uncle lived all to himself. A plan formulated before my rational mind had time to stop it.
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