Chapter 7: The Music Box
David locked the security room door.
“Stay here,” he ordered.
I looked at him.
“Why?””
“Because something is wrong with the security system.””
He walked to the monitor.
The camera feeds were flickering.
One by one, the hallways disappeared from the screen.
Then the main entrance went black.
David grabbed his radio.
“Control, do you copy?””
Static.
He tried again.
Nothing.
“James, stay behind me.””
I felt my stomach tighten.
“Is someone inside?””
“I don't know.””
He pulled his phone from his pocket and called the police.
The call connected.
Then the lights went out.
Darkness swallowed the room.
I heard David moving.
A metallic click.
Then his voice.
“Don't move.””
Something crashed in the hallway.
A door slammed.
And someone ran.
David rushed toward the entrance.
“Stay here!””
But before he reached it, the emergency lights flickered on.
The monitor suddenly came alive.
One camera remained active.
The attic staircase.
A figure was standing at the top.
Wearing a black jacket.
Holding something in one hand.
David leaned closer.
“That's impossible.””
I stepped beside him.
The figure turned toward the camera.
It was Daniel.
He raised his hand.
In it was my mother's music box.
Then the screen went black.
I felt my chest tighten.
“He has it.””
David immediately opened the door.
“Stay here.””
“No!””
“James—”
“He has my mother's music box!””
I pushed past him.
We ran through the corridor toward the attic staircase.
The house was silent except for our footsteps.
When we reached the top, the attic door stood open.
The smell of dust and old wood filled the air.
Boxes were scattered across the floor.
A broken picture frame lay near the window.
But Daniel was gone.
David searched the room.
“Check the back exit!””
I moved toward the old storage shelves.
And there it was.
The music box.
It sat on the floor beside a stack of Christmas decorations.
The lid was open.
The ballerina was missing.
I picked it up.
Something rattled inside.
My fingers trembled as I turned the box over.
There was a tiny metal latch underneath.
I pressed it.
A narrow compartment opened.
Inside was a folded piece of paper and a small silver key.
I unfolded the paper.
My mother's handwriting.
My sweet James,
If you've found this, then you are old enough to understand why I kept certain things hidden.
I never wanted you to grow up afraid of the people around you.
But I need you to know that your father was never my enemy.
Someone close to him was using his name to move money. I found the evidence, and I was going to expose it.
The original records are not in the storage unit.
They are in the place where your father first asked me to marry him.
Remember the red door.
I love you more than anything in this world.
Mom.
I read the letter twice.
The place where Dad proposed.
I knew exactly where it was.
The old greenhouse.
Dad had told me the story a hundred times.
He'd proposed to Mom in the garden greenhouse during a thunderstorm. She had laughed because the roof leaked and rainwater landed on her dress.
The red door was the entrance to that greenhouse.
But the greenhouse had been abandoned years ago.
“David!””
He turned.
I handed him the letter.
He read it quickly.
“We need to tell Detective Bennett.””
I nodded.
Then I looked down at the silver key.
There was a tiny number engraved on it.
*317.*
David's phone rang.
He answered immediately.
“David Price.””
A pause.
“Yes, Detective.””
He listened.
Then his face tightened.
“Understood.””
He ended the call.
“What happened?”” I asked.
“Daniel's vehicle was found at the warehouse.””
“Was he there?””
“No.””
“Then where is he?””
David looked at the key.
“The detective says someone has been accessing the old greenhouse.””
I felt a chill.
“Who?””
“Victoria.””
We hurried downstairs.
Dad called while we were on the way to the main entrance.
David answered and put him on speaker.
“James?””
“Dad!””
“Are you safe?””
“Yes. We found Mom's music box.””
There was a pause.
“What did you find?””
I read the letter aloud.
When I finished, Dad was silent.
Then he whispered, “The greenhouse.””
“Do you remember the red door?””
“Yes.””
“There's a key with the number 317.””
Another pause.
Dad's voice changed.
“James, listen to me. Don't go there.””
“Why?””
“Because I know that number.””
David looked at me.
Dad continued.
“Three hundred and seventeen was the number of the private storage compartment your mother rented before she died.””
My heart started racing.
“Where?””
“Bluebird Storage.””
The same place Grandma had visited.
“The key opens the compartment?””
“I think so.””
“Then we should go.””
Dad's voice became urgent.
“No. The greenhouse is where she hid the original records. The storage unit is somewhere else. We need to know which location is safe before we move.””
I looked at the letter.
The original records are not in the storage unit.
My mother had been very specific.
The greenhouse.
But why had Victoria gone there?
Then my phone vibrated.
A new message.
A photograph.
The old greenhouse.
The red door stood open.
And someone was lying on the floor inside.
I zoomed in.
A man's hand was visible.
There was a gold wedding ring on his finger.
I recognized it.
It belonged to Martin Cole.
May you like
The message beneath the photograph contained only one sentence.
*Bring the key to the greenhouse, James. Your father's attorney has run out of time.*
