The Evidence Box

The ruins of Mercer Hall were a skeletal cage of blackened timber and stone, the air still thick with the acrid taste of wet ash. Police tape fluttered in the damp wind, a fragile barrier against the enormity of what had happened.

Iris parked the rental car on the shoulder, well away from the patrol car stationed at the main gate.

"They'll see us," Marcus said, eyeing the flashing lights in the distance.

"Not if we go through the woods," Iris said. "The perimeter fence is down near the old oak. The fire truck knocked it over."

They moved through the trees, the ground soft and yielding under their feet. Iris’s ankle was a dull, constant ache, but she pushed it to the back of her mind. She had a mission.

They reached the clearing where the bulkhead doors lay hidden beneath a tangle of ivy. The doors were steel, rusted shut, untouched by the fire that had consumed the house above.

"This is it," Iris said.

She pulled out the key ring. The heavy iron key, the one that looked like it belonged to a dungeon.

She slid it into the padlock. It turned with a groan of protest.

Marcus helped her heave the doors open. A smell of damp earth and coal dust rose up to meet them.

"It's going to be unstable," Marcus warned, clicking on his flashlight. "The floor above collapsed. There could be debris everywhere."

"We have to try," Iris said.

She descended the concrete steps into the dark.

The sub-basement was a labyrinth of brick arches and coal chutes, untouched by the renovations that had modernized the floors above. It was cold, silent, and terrifying.

They moved slowly, their beams cutting through the gloom. Dust motes danced in the light, settling on the piles of coal that still remained from a century ago.

"The library was in the south wing," Iris whispered, orienting herself. "Above the old furnace room."

They navigated the maze, stepping over puddles of water that had seeped in from the fire hoses.

Then they saw it.

A section of the ceiling had caved in, a chaotic spill of charred wood, plaster, and books. It blocked the corridor, a mountain of destruction.

"We can't get through," Marcus said.

"We have to climb over," Iris said.

She started to scramble up the pile. A beam shifted under her weight, sending a cascade of plaster dust into the air.

"Careful!" Marcus grabbed her arm.

They climbed, slipping and sliding on the wet debris. At the top, Iris shone her light into the space beyond.

It was the furnace room. And in the center of the room, lying amidst the rubble like a fallen monolith, was the floor safe.

It had fallen through the burning floorboards, crashing through the sub-flooring, and landing here.

It was battered, scorched, but intact.

Iris slid down the other side of the pile. She reached the safe. It was heavy, iron, immovable.

"The combination," she said. "Julian said it was lost."

"Julian lies," Marcus said.

"Elias wrote 'Book'," Iris said. "And 'Safe'. The combination isn't lost. It's in a book."

She looked around at the scattered, burned remains of the library. Thousands of books, turned to ash and pulp.

"Which book?" Marcus asked, kicking a charred spine.

"The one he kept," Iris said, remembering the book under the pillow in the secret room. *The Count of Monte Cristo.*

But that book was gone.

"Think," she told herself. "Elias was six when he was locked away. No, he was twenty. But he thinks like a child sometimes. A code. A cipher."

She looked at the safe again. It was an old model. A dial. Numbers 0 to 99.

*Mom, why don't you answer?*

Cordelia’s birthday? No, she had tried that on the wall safe.

She looked at the rubble. A piece of wood, unburned, lay near the safe. A piece of the library floor.

It had a pattern. Parquet.

"The floor," she whispered.

"What?"

"The library floor," she said. "When I was a kid, Elias used to play a game. He would count the squares. He said they were a map."

She closed her eyes, trying to remember the pattern of the rug in the library. The way it centered the room.

*Three steps north. Four steps east.*

"3-4..." she whispered.

She turned the dial. 3... 4...

Nothing.

"It's not steps," Marcus said. "It's dates. Numbers."

Iris looked at the safe. It was huge. A bank safe.

She remembered something else. Something Julian had said at the funeral, years ago. *My father loved this house more than his children.*

The house.

The address. 1990 Mercer Road.

She tried 19... 90...

Nothing.

She sat back on her heels, frustration welling up.

Then she saw it.

Stuck to the bottom of the safe, preserved by the lack of oxygen as it fell, was a piece of tape.

Red tape.

Just like the key to the Carriage House.

She peeled it off.

Written on the back, in tiny, faded ink: *Page 42.*

Page 42 of what?

She looked at the debris. A book lay near the safe, protected by a fallen beam. It was scorched, the cover gone, but the pages were intact.

She picked it up. *The Great Gatsby.*

She turned to page 42.

There was no text. Just a series of numbers written in the margin.

*10-24-55.*

Cordelia’s wedding anniversary.

She turned the dial. 10... 24... 55.

*Click.*

The handle turned.

Iris pulled the heavy door open.

Inside, there was no money. No gold.

Just a single, metal box. The kind used for safety deposit storage.

And a stack of video tapes. VHS.

She pulled one out. The label was handwritten.

*November 14, 1990.*

"We need a VCR," Marcus said.

"My mom has one," Iris said. "In the attic."

They grabbed the box and the tapes. They climbed back over the rubble, back through the dark maze, and out into the dawn.

They had the evidence. Now they just had to play it.

She went back into the dark.