Chapter 4 - THE WATCH ON THE MANTEL
I didn't answer her. I couldn't. I turned away from the crowd on my lawn and practically tore the screen door off its hinges as I ran inside my small, dusty house.
"Martha, wait!" Ethan called out, his heavy boots thudding against the porch as he and Lily rushed in after me.
I ignored them, my breath coming in ragged, painful gasps. I crossed the faded floral rug of my living room, my eyes fixed on the stone fireplace. There, resting on a small wooden pedestal under a glass dome, was Walter’s silver pocket watch. It had belonged to his grandfather, and Walter had carried it every day of his life until the day his heart gave out ten years ago. It hadn't ticked since the morning of his funeral.
My hands shook violently as I lifted the glass dome. The cold silver of the watch burned against my palm.
"Grandma," Lily said softly, standing in the entryway with little Leo clinging to her leg. "Are you okay?"
"My husband was a good man," I choked out, tears blurring my vision. "He was a good, honest man. He loved Michael more than his own life."
"I know," Ethan said gently, stepping beside me. "Nobody is saying Walter hurt him. But Michael left that note for a reason. May I?"
He held out his large, calloused hand. I hesitated, feeling a fierce, irrational urge to protect my late husband's memory, but I surrendered the watch. Ethan clicked the top button. The spring-loaded front cover popped open, revealing the cracked glass face and the frozen hands pointing to 8:14.
Ethan turned it over. He pulled a small pocketknife from his belt, slipped the blade into the microscopic seam of the back casing, and gently twisted. The silver backplate popped off with a sharp metallic tink.
I leaned in, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Nestled among the tiny, frozen brass gears was a tightly rolled strip of black microfilm and a small, flat brass key.
Ethan carefully extracted them, setting them on my coffee table. The key had a number stamped into the metal: 402.
"A locker key," Lily breathed, her eyes widening. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. "My mother left me a box of old photographs. One of them never made sense to me. It was just a picture of a wall." She scrolled frantically through her photo album and held the screen up for us to see.
It was a Polaroid picture of a wall of rusted green metal storage lockers. Stenciled in chipped white paint on the center door was the number 402.
"The old Jefferson train station," Ethan said, his voice tight. "They shut it down twenty years ago, but the building is still there. The city uses it for municipal storage now."
"Whatever Michael found," I whispered, staring at the tiny roll of microfilm, "whatever got him killed... he hid the proof."
Suddenly, little Leo let out a sharp gasp.
"Grandma," the five-year-old boy whimpered, pointing a small, trembling finger toward the large bay window at the front of the living room. "Why is that man looking in your window?"
My head snapped up. Through the sheer lace curtains, I caught the terrifying glimpse of a dark figure standing on my porch, his face pressed against the glass. He was wearing a long, expensive wool overcoat.
The moment I looked, the figure flinched, turned, and sprinted away.
"Hey!" Ethan roared. He bolted across the living room, threw open the front door, and sprinted out onto the porch.
I rushed to the window just in time to see Ethan chasing the man across my snow-covered lawn, right through the crowd of confused alumni. But the man was fast. He dove into a sleek, black luxury sedan idling at the curb. The tires squealed violently against the icy asphalt, fishtailing before tearing down the street.
Ethan stood in the road, his chest heaving, staring at the red taillights fading into the winter fog. When he walked back into the house, his expression was utterly grim.
"Did you see his face?" Lily asked, clutching Leo tightly to her chest.
"No," Ethan growled. "But I saw the license plate. State government tags."
May you like
He looked at me, and I saw a terrifying realization dawn in his eyes.
"Mrs. Wilson," Ethan said slowly. "The bank didn't send you a foreclosure notice because you missed three payments. They sent it because they needed you out of this house. Someone knew Michael hid a clue in here, and they needed to tear this place apart to find it."
