The Locksmith

The date on the photo burned into Elena’s mind, a silver-halide ghost story. October 15, 1990. The day the police came.

The photo was the missing link. It proved Sarah was in the red coat that night. It proved Sarah was the one who had been carrying the Tamagotchi—and, by extension, the one who would have found the ribbon. The one who let Arthur rewrite history because it was easier than fighting him.

Elena shoved the photo into her pocket, the cold metal frame digging into her hip. She had the forgery. She had the photo. But she didn't have the letters. Sarah had them. And Sarah was gone.

She had to get out. She had to find Sarah before Julian realized his "ally" had bolted.

Elena sprinted to the front door. The heavy oak felt solid, reassuring. She grabbed the handle.

Locked.

She twisted the deadbolt. It turned, but the handle didn't budge.

She jiggled it. Nothing.

Julian had re-keyed the locks last week. He had given Elena a key, but that was for the *old* deadbolt. The handle lock—the one Arthur had installed after the "burglary" in '98—was new.

She was trapped.

Panic flared, hot and sudden. She turned to the keypad on the wall. The security system. If she triggered it, the monitoring company would call. The police would come back.

She punched in the code. *1-9-9-0.* Arthur’s twisted memorial.

The panel beeped. *System Armed.*

She punched it again to disarm.

*Invalid Code.*

Julian had changed the code.

"Looking for something?"

The voice came from the top of the stairs. Julian stood on the landing, his silhouette cut out by the hallway light. He was holding a small, silver object in his hand.

A key fob.

"You really thought I'd let you just walk out with Dad's property?" he asked, his voice echoing in the high-ceilinged foyer.

"Let me out, Julian," Elena said, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Not until I search you." He started down the stairs, slow and deliberate. "Sarah said you were acting crazy. Said you were stealing things from the guest room."

"Sarah is lying."

"Is she? Then why did she leave?" Julian reached the bottom step. "She said she couldn't watch you do it. Couldn't watch you rob a dying man."

He was close now. Too close. Elena could smell the stale coffee on his breath.

"Empty your pockets, Elena."

"No."

He lunged. It wasn't a graceful move, just a brute grab for her jacket. Elena twisted away, but he caught her sleeve. The fabric tore.

"Give it to me!" he shouted, the veneer of the professional executor cracking to reveal the bully beneath.

She shoved him. He stumbled back, surprised by her resistance.

Elena turned and ran for the kitchen. The back door. Maybe the key still worked there.

She burst into the kitchen, skidding on the linoleum. She slammed into the back door and twisted the lock.

It turned.

She threw the door open—and stopped dead.

A man was standing on the back porch, hand raised as if to knock. He wore coveralls with "Sure-Lock & Safe" embroidered on the chest. He held a heavy drill in one hand and a tool bag in the other.

"Mr. Vance called?" the locksmith said, looking past Elena to Julian, who was panting in the kitchen doorway. "Said he needed access to the wall safe. The new one."

Elena looked at the locksmith, then at Julian.

The wall safe wasn't new. It had been there for twenty years. Arthur had installed it behind the portrait in the library.

But Julian had told the locksmith it was new. Because he didn't have the combination.

Julian stepped into the kitchen, smoothing his torn shirt. "Right on time," he said, his eyes fixed on Elena with a cold, triumphant smile. "This is my sister. She was just leaving."

He looked at the locksmith. "The safe is in the library. Drill it."

Elena realized with a jolt that Julian wasn't just looking for money. He was looking for the same thing she was. The leverage. The proof.

And he was willing to break the house apart to find it.

"Mr. Vance said he needed access to the wall safe. The new one."