Chapter 3 - The Cipher in the Watch
By midnight, we were inside a stolen farm truck Evan had hidden two miles down the ridge road. The heater blasted warm, musty air into the cab as we headed south toward the city of St. Jude.
"You said Travis took Dad's watch," I said, keeping my eyes fixed on the rain-slicked highway. "What did you mean?"
Evan pulled his hands close to the heater vent. "Mom took the real watch out of the safe months ago. But she didn't know Dad had two identical Omegas. He bought a twin set when we were born. He kept his daily driver in the workshop drawer behind the lathe."
"Did you get it?"
Evan reached deep into his wet coat pocket and pulled out a heavy stainless-steel chronograph with a scratched acrylic crystal.
"I grabbed it the night Travis came to my apartment to kill me," Evan whispered. "I managed to fight him off, slipped out the fire escape, and ran straight to Dad's old workshop. I knew if Travis was coming for me, the answer had to be in what Dad left behind."
I pulled the truck into the parking lot of an all-night diner on the outskirts of town. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. We sat in the furthest back booth, shadowed by a plastic partition.
Evan took a small precision screwdriver set—the kind used for eyeglasses—out of his pocket. With practiced, trembling fingers, he worked at the case back of the vintage watch.
"Dad was a master mechanic," Evan said quietly. "He loved hiding things in plain sight."
With a soft click, the back plate came free.
Inside, where the tiny mechanical balance wheel should have been spinning, the movement had been completely hollowed out. In its place was a tightly coiled strip of micro-film and a tiny silver key with a five-digit number stamped onto its bow: 40912.
"That’s not a bank box," I said, inspecting the key under the dim diner light. "That’s a locker key for the central train station downtown."
"And the film?" Evan asked.
"We need a projector. Or a high-magnification scanner."
Before Evan could reply, the television hanging above the diner counter clicked loudly as the local news broadcast cut in with a breaking bulletin.
A photo of my face filled the screen.
"Police are searching for 28-year-old Liam Vane," the news anchor announced. "Vane is wanted for questioning in connection with the violent abduction of his mother, Eleanor Vane, and the assault of a family member at Oakridge Cemetery earlier today. Authorities advise that Vane may be armed, severely unstable, and suffering from a psychotic break following the death of his twin brother."
I stared at the screen, my blood turning to liquid ice.
"They flipped it," I whispered. "Mom and Travis called the police. They're telling the world I've gone insane."
Evan grabbed my arm. His grip was terrified. "Look at the bottom banner, Liam."
May you like
The news ticker at the bottom of the screen read: SEARCH UNDERWAY ALONG RIDGE ROAD AFTER BLOOD SAMPLES MATCHING LIAM VANE WERE FOUND NEAR ABANDONED CABIN.
They weren't just framing me for a breakdown. They were setting up the scene for my "suicide." If the police found me, Travis would make sure I never reached a courtroom.
