Chapter 9 - Back Into The Lion's Den
The back latch of the suburban house lifted with a muted click that felt, in the heavy afternoon stillness, like the snap of a dry branch underfoot. I lowered my hand slowly from the brass knob, my fingers tightening against the palm of my black apron, which I had forgotten to take off before we left the diner. Beside me on the porch mat, Clara stood perfectly rigid, her beige cardigan pulled tight around her narrow shoulders as if she were trying to ward off a chill that lived entirely inside her bones.
"We only need three minutes, Clara," I whispered, keeping my voice low and level as I eased the wooden door open just enough for us to slip through into the kitchen.
The air inside smelled of dust and cold linoleum, untouched by the late afternoon sun cutting long, gray bars across the floorboards. It was the quiet of a house that had been stripped of life long before anyone turned off the heat. Clara followed me closely, her soft-soled shoes making no sound against the tile as we moved past the gleaming, empty counters toward the narrow hallway leading to the master bedroom at the back of the ground floor.
The bedroom was cavernous, dominated by a heavy mahogany bed with carved posts that reached toward a high, plastered ceiling. The curtains were drawn halfway, casting a dim, amber glow over the dresser where Julian kept his spare watch collection and leather-bound ledgers. But we weren't looking for Julian’s things.
"The second drawer," Clara murmured, her voice trembling slightly as she pointed a thin, age-spotted finger toward a dark mahogany vanity tucked into the corner near the walk-in closet. "Under the silk scarves."
I crossed the room in two silent strides and pulled the drawer open. It glided on oiled tracks with a faint hiss. Beneath a nest of folded silk scarves that smelled faintly of old lavender and mothballs sat a carved wooden music box. The lid was inlaid with a delicate pattern of brass ivy leaves, the metal tarnished dark at the edges from years of neglect.
I lifted it out carefully, feeling its unexpected weight in my palms. As I set it down on the edge of the vanity, Clara stepped up beside me. Her breath hitched, a small, fragile sound that made my chest tighten. She reached out with a trembling hand and traced the brass ivy leaves with the tip of her forefinger.
"My husband gave me this," she whispered, her eyes glazing over as she stared down at the polished wood. "Our wedding day. He wound it up before we walked out of the church. It played The Waltz of the Flowers until the spring broke in nineteen-eighty-four."
"We can listen to it later," I said gently, though the sight of her small, fragile hand resting on the box made my throat go dry. "Right now, we need the key inside."
With a soft click, the latch of the music box gave way. Inside, nestled on a velvet bed where clockwork gears and brass cylinders lay silent, was a small, heavy iron key attached to a faded green ribbon. I picked it up, feeling the cold metal press into my palm. It was the key to the safety deposit box at the downtown bank—the one box Julian didn't know existed, containing the original deeds and trusts that proved Clara owned every brick of this estate before her signature was forged onto the transfer documents.
"I have it," I whispered, slipping the key and the ribbon into the deep pocket of my black vest.
Before Clara could answer, a sharp, metallic sound echoed from the front of the house. The heavy front door swung open with a resounding thud against the baseboard, followed by the firm, measured tread of hard-soled shoes striking the hardwood foyer.
"Clara?" Julian’s voice rang out, sharp and impatient, cutting through the silence of the hallway like a blade. "Why are the back doors unlocked?"
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My heart slammed against my ribs. There was no time to put the music box back, no time to close the vanity drawer. The footsteps were already turning down the corridor, moving toward the bedroom with the heavy, unhurried certainty of a man who believed he owned every square inch of the world he walked on.
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