Chapter 2 - The Key to the Past
The neon sign of Metro Safe-Deposit buzzed faintly against the gray twilight as I pushed open the glass door. The facility smelled of industrial carpet, stale coffee, and old paper. The night clerk, a bored young man scrolling through his phone behind a Plexiglas barrier, barely glanced up as I approached.
"Unit 108," I said, sliding the small iron key across the counter.
The clerk blinked, looked at the key tag, and then looked at my worn backpack and bruised knuckles. He hesitated, picking up the key before running it through a secondary verification terminal. The machine let out a sharp, affirmative chirp.
"Sign the registry, Mr. Dennis," the clerk muttered, sliding a heavy metal logbook toward me.
My breath caught. He knew my name.
Before I could ask how, the clerk added, "Your father rented that vault under perpetual instructions. He said if a young man matching your description ever showed up with that specific key, I was to hand over the contents immediately and escort you to the private viewing room."
I signed my name in shaky cursive, the pen scratching against the paper like a ticking clock.
The clerk unlocked a heavy secondary door leading into the vault corridor. Row upon row of gray metal safety boxes stretched into the dim fluorescent lighting. We stopped at unit 108, halfway down the third aisle. The clerk inserted a master key, turned it simultaneously with mine, and pulled the heavy steel drawer out before discreetly stepping back to give me privacy.
Inside the vault box sat a thick, fireproof accordion folder, a heavy flash drive, and an old leather-bound journal belonging to my mother.
I lifted the accordion folder and set it on the stainless-steel table inside the viewing room. When I flipped the elastic band open, the contents spilled out across the metal surface like a detonated charge.
Audited financial statements from Dennis Freight & Marine dating back ten years.
Original bank routing slips bearing Carter’s forged signatures.
And a certified medical toxicology report bearing my father’s name, dated just two months prior, detailing lethal traces of heavy metals in his bloodstream.
They hadn't just stolen my inheritance and my three years of freedom.
They had murdered my father in cold blood.
As I stared at the toxicological breakdown, my phone buzzed violently in my pocket. It was an unknown number, displaying a local Silver Lake caller ID.
I swiped to answer, pressing the phone to my ear.
May you like
"Finnley," a smooth, chillingly familiar voice purred through the speaker. It was Reagan. "I hear you've been visiting cemeteries and asking around town. You really should have stayed on the bus out of state."
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