Chapter 1 - The Lock on the Third Floor
The arrival of the Silver Creek Police Department changed the temperature in the living room from stifling grief to razor-sharp tension. Detective Raymond Miller, a veteran with tired eyes and a slow, deliberate posture, stepped into the entryway flanked by two patrol officers. His gaze swept over the black mourning ribbons, my mother sobbing into her handkerchief, Derek sweating against the wall, and me—standing guard at the base of the stairs.
"Alex," Detective Miller said, recognizing me immediately. "What's going on here? We got a call about a suspicious death."
"This isn't a suicide, Detective," I said, my voice steady despite the fury burning through my veins. "My daughter Lily witnessed my brother Derek breaking into our third-floor room. She saw my mother take Clara's phone and lock them inside. And my father is trying to show me something."
"He's delusional with grief!" Beatrice barked, stepping forward with her hands clutched over her chest. "Detective, Clara suffered from severe postpartum depression. She hanged herself in the attic three days ago. As a licensed mortician, I handled the body myself out of respect for my family. Alex wasn't here. He couldn't handle the truth, so he's listening to the ramblings of a traumatized six-year-old child!"
Detective Miller looked at Beatrice, then at my mother, whose face was buried in her hands. Finally, he looked down at Lily, who was clinging to my leg, her tear-stained face hidden against my denim jacket.
"Where is the body currently?" Miller asked.
"Right here," I said, walking over to the casket. I looked down at Clara. Her face was pale, heavily powdered, and her high-collared dress seemed positioned to cover every inch of her neck. "I want an independent autopsy. No offense to Aunt Beatrice's funeral home, but she has a massive conflict of interest."
"You can't do that!" my mother shrieked, suddenly leaping to her feet. "She’s already been prepared! You’re defiling her memory, Alex! Why are you doing this to our family?!"
"Because my wife didn't want to die," I snapped.
While Miller signaled his officers to secure the casket and call the county coroner, I turned my attention to my father. Arthur sat in his wheelchair near the banister, his chest heaving as he stared at me with desperate intensity. His left hand slammed down onto the vinyl armrest again.
Three thuds.
I dropped to my knees beside his chair. "Dad. What is it?"
He grunted, his mouth twisting as he tried to form words that wouldn't come. With agonizing slowness, he raised his left hand and pointed directly beneath the cushion he was sitting on.
I reached beneath the thick foam pad. My fingers brushed against a small, hard object wrapped in a plastic sandwich bag. I pulled it out.
It was a flash drive—and attached to it with a piece of blue painter's tape was Clara’s silver wedding ring.
"Where did you get this?" I whispered.
My father looked up toward the third floor, then looked directly at Derek, who was edging closer to the back kitchen door.
"Miller!" I shouted, standing up and thrusting the drive toward the detective. "Derek is running!"
Derek bolted for the kitchen. But the two patrol officers were faster. They tackled him into the dining room table, sending crystal punch bowls and framed family pictures crashing to the hardwood floor. Derek screamed as his face was pressed into the rug, his arms forced behind his back.
"I didn't kill her!" Derek howled, his voice breaking into a panicked screech. "I didn't do it! It was Vance! Vance told me to get the ledger!"
The room went dead silent.
My boss's name hung in the air like a poisoned mist. Mr. Vance—the CEO of Vanguard Logistics, the man who had personally assigned me to the off-grid military supply run three days ago, ensuring I had no cell service, no radio, and no way of checking on my family.
Detective Miller stood over Derek, clicking his cuffs into place. "Derek Carter, you're under arrest for obstruction and potential involvement in a homicide. Let's go."
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As they hauled Derek out the front door, my mother collapsed into a chair, wailing hysterically. Beatrice tried to follow them out, but Miller placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. "You're not going anywhere either, Ms. Beatrice. This house is a crime scene now. Nobody leaves."
I looked down at the flash drive in my palm. The truth wasn't just in the house—it was stored in digital light, waiting for me to plug it in.
