Chapter 2 - The Locksmith’s Revelation
Panic flickered in my chest before a cold, calculated resolve pushed it aside. I walked around to the side entrance, checking the windows. They were securely latched from the inside, exactly as I had left them.
I pulled out my phone and dialed the local locksmith whose card was still clipped to my refrigerator.
“Dave, it’s Clara Vance,” I said when he answered. “I need you to come out to my mother’s cottage on Elm Street right away. Someone put an unauthorized padlock on my front door.”
Forty minutes later, Dave’s van pulled into the gravel driveway. He stepped out, shaking his head as he inspected the heavy iron lock. “Mrs. Vance, this is commercial grade. Someone didn't just want to keep you out; they wanted to stake a permanent claim.”
With a pair of heavy bolt cutters, Dave snapped the shackle in two. The lock hit the concrete porch with a dull, heavy thud.
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As I pushed the front door open, the scent of fresh paint was immediately overpowered by something else—cheap cologne and stale cigarette smoke. Someone had been inside. The kitchen counter was littered with fast-food wrappers, and resting right next to the sink was a set of spare keys I thought I had hidden safely in the garage tool chest.
“They didn't just break in,” I whispered to myself, staring at the keys. “They had a duplicate made before I changed the locks.”
