Chapter 6
We waited in the utility room with the light still off, listening through the thin door to the hall.
Elena had her ear against the wood, one hand on the knob, the other holding the flashlight down. I stood behind her, my good hand braced on the linen shelf. The cut on my side had bled through my shirt again; I could feel it warm and sticky.
Footsteps passed. Heavy, even. Then a second set.
"Garage again," one voice said, close. "You take kitchen, I take garage."
"Don't let him slip out the south," the other said.
A door opened and shut. One pair of footsteps receded toward the back of the house. The other moved away toward the kitchen — away from the office.
Elena turned, her eyes finding mine in the dark. She held up two fingers, then one. Go.
We slipped into the hall. The mansion at night was all wood and shadow, the patterned runner muffling our steps. The warm low light from the wall sconces threw deep shadows that made the hallway look longer than it was. The velvet curtain hung at the far end, perfectly still, the narrow doorway threshold into the private office just beyond it.
The office door was ajar. No one stood at it now — they'd left it to check the garage. That was our window.
We moved fast but quiet, the way you move when you don't want the floor to know you're there. Elena reached the curtain first and held it for me. I ducked behind it, feeling the heavy fabric brush my coat, and we were in the doorway again, pressed together like the first time she'd silenced me. But now we stepped through.
The office was colder. Papers were still scattered on the desk, drawers upended on the rug. The portrait of my father hung above the mantel, straight now, his eyes looking just over my shoulder.
Elena went to the desk and listened, her head cocked toward the hall. I went to the portrait.
Up close it was larger than I remembered, the varnish yellowed. I put both hands on the frame and pushed sideways the way the man had, then pulled. Nothing. I felt along the bottom edge, fingers searching for a latch, a wire, anything. The wood was smooth, dust thick behind it.
"Victor," Elena hissed softly from the desk. "Hurry."
I crouched, ran my hand under the lower lip of the frame. There — a small metal catch, cold, almost flush with the wood. I pressed it. It didn't give. I pressed harder, sliding it left. It clicked.
The portrait swung outward on hidden hinges, an inch, then caught. A safe was behind it, set into the paneling, its dial black and worn, a single keyhole below. Old. My father's.
I tried the handle. Locked.
Elena was beside me now, flashlight cupped again, beam on the dial. "Daniel's log said safe room inventory," she whispered. "He wrote 'red book, safe behind portrait, combination taped under desk.'"
Under the desk. The men had pulled the drawers but had they looked under?
I dropped to my knees and felt under the large desk's center drawer cavity, my fingers sweeping dust and a loose pencil. Then my hand hit tape — brittle, peeling. A folded slip of paper taped to the underside.
I peeled it off, unfolded it. Four numbers in my father's handwriting: 11-08-04.
My father's birthday, reversed.
Footsteps in the hall. Returning. Heavy, faster now.
"They're coming back," Elena breathed. She switched off the flashlight.
I spun the dial, hands shaking, 11, 08, 04, left, right, left, the clicks loud in the quiet room. I pulled the handle.
The safe door opened with a soft thunk.
Inside was a stack of old property deeds, a brass key, and a single red ledger — leather, faded, the cover scuffed at the corners. I grabbed it. It was thinner than I'd expected, light. I flipped it open an inch — lined pages, my father's tight script, names, dates, dollar amounts.
And a folded photo tucked in the front, a man in a maintenance uniform — Daniel — smiling, arm around Elena.
The hallway footsteps stopped just outside the velvet curtain. A shadow fell across the threshold.
May you like
Elena's hand found mine on the ledger. She pushed the safe door shut with her other hand, swung the portrait back until the catch clicked, and pulled me down behind the desk as the curtain moved.
We crouched low, the red ledger pressed between us, my father's portrait staring over our heads at the man now filling the doorway.
