The Locksmith

"He waved?" Iris gripped the steering wheel, her knuckles white. The image of Julian—standing on a campus sidewalk, perfectly groomed, radiating menace—made her skin crawl.

"Yeah. Like... like he was just visiting," Maya whispered. "Mom, please. Just leave. Go to a hotel. I'll Venmo you money. I have some from my work-study."

"No," Iris said, her voice hard. "You keep your money. I'm going to handle this."

She hung up before Maya could argue. She wasn't going to a hotel. She wasn't going to run. She was going to get back into the house, and she was going to get Elias out. Tonight.

But first, she needed access. Julian had the keys. Julian had the codes. And Julian had made sure every professional in town knew she was "unstable."

She needed someone who didn't care about the Vance reputation. Someone who operated in the grey areas where desperation met opportunity.

She googled *24 hour locksmith Mercer County*. The results were a litany of slick websites and 1-800 numbers. She skipped them. She scrolled until she found a listing with no website, just a name—*Sal's Lock & Key*—and a local number.

She dialed. It rang six times.

"Yeah?" A voice like gravel in a blender.

"I'm locked out," Iris said. "I need to get into a pantry. It's an... antique lock."

"It's 2:30 in the morning, lady. Call back at nine."

"I'll pay double," Iris said. "Cash."

"Address?"

"1240 High Street. Mercer Hall."

Silence. A long, heavy pause that stretched until the static on the line grew loud.

"Vance place?" Sal asked. His tone had shifted. Wary.

"Yes. I'm the niece. Iris Vance."

"I know who you are," Sal said. "And I know who your uncle is. Listen, lady. I got a call this afternoon. From Mr. Vance's office."

Iris closed her eyes. Of course he had.

"He said there might be some... confusion regarding the property," Sal continued. " Said the executor—that's you, right?—was having some memory issues. Misplacing keys. Thinking locks were broken when they weren't."

"He's lying," Iris said. "He's trying to keep me out of my own house."

"Look, I don't get involved in family squabbles. Especially not with Julian Vance. That guy could sue the stripes off a tiger."

"Please," Iris begged. "It's an emergency. There's someone inside who needs help."

"Then call the cops."

"I can't! He owns the cops!"

"Sorry, lady. My license is worth more than your double fee. Don't call this number again."

The line went dead.

Iris stared at the phone. He had blockaded her. Systematically, ruthlessly, he had cut off every avenue of retreat and every avenue of attack. He had frozen her money, poisoned her credibility, and terrified the local tradesmen.

She was isolated.

And then, a text message pinged. Not from Maya. From an unknown number.

*Mr. Vance said you might lose your keys. He said you were forgetful like your aunt.*