Chapter 5 - Box 412
The Silver Creek Savings and Loan was a relic from the 1970s, complete with faded brown carpets and bulletproof glass that looked like it hadn't been washed in a decade. Hawk refused to let Emily go inside alone. He walked right beside her, his heavy boots sinking into the carpet, ignoring the terrified glances of the lone teller and the branch manager.
Grace had handed over the brass key with trembling hands, warning them that Miller kept eyes on the bank. They had to be fast.
"Safety deposit boxes," Hawk grunted to the branch manager, a balding man named Higgins who looked like he was about to faint.
"O-of course, Mr. Reynolds. Which box?"
"412," Emily said, stepping up to the counter. "It's under Thomas Carter."
Higgins fumbled with his master keys, leading them into the vault. The heavy steel door locked behind them with a definitive thud, drowning out the ambient noise of the lobby. Higgins unlocked his side of Box 412 and scurried out of the vault, leaving Emily and Hawk alone in the cold, metallic silence.
Emily slid Grace’s brass key into the secondary slot. It turned with a satisfying click. She pulled the long metal drawer free and set it on the viewing table.
Her hands hesitated over the lid. If she opened this, there was no going back to the girl who just served pie and waited for her dad to come home.
"Whatever is in there," Hawk said softly, his voice echoing in the vault, "you don't have to carry it alone."
Emily took a deep breath and flipped the lid open.
There was no money. No legal documents. Just two items resting on the red velvet lining. The first was a folded piece of child's construction paper. The second was a heavy, silver pocket watch, heavily scratched and dented, its chain broken.
Emily picked up the paper first. She unfolded it carefully. It was a crayon drawing of a bright blue cabin with a yellow door, nestled between two jagged green mountains. At the bottom, in a child's messy scrawl, were the words: To Uncle Tommy. Thank you for our house.
"Uncle Tommy," Emily whispered, her throat tightening. "My dad. He was visiting them. He was raising someone."
Hawk reached past her, his massive hand picking up the tarnished pocket watch. He pressed the release button on the crown, but the face didn't pop open. He turned it over, his thumb tracing a deep groove in the back casing.
"This isn't your dad's watch," Hawk said, his voice tightening. "This is Elias's. Our father gave it to him when he turned eighteen."
Hawk pressed hard on the back casing and twisted. The back of the watch popped off, revealing a hollow compartment where the gears should have been. Inside was a tiny, rolled-up microdot slip—a ledger—and a single brass bullet casing.
But it was the face of the watch that caught Emily's eye. The glass was cracked, and the hands were permanently rusted into place.
"Hawk, look at the time."
Hawk flipped it over. The hour hand was stuck on the 11. The minute hand was perfectly aligned with the 3. 11:15.
"It's broken," Hawk said.
"My father didn't keep broken things unless they had a purpose," Emily said, her mind racing. "A blue cabin in the mountains. 11:15." She looked up, her eyes wide with sudden realization. "It's not a time. It's coordinates. Highway 11, mile marker 15. The old logging road."
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Hawk’s phone buzzed violently in his leather cut. He pulled it out, answering it on speaker.
"Boss," Diesel's voice barked through the static. "We got a problem. Miller's cruisers just blew past the diner heading North on 11. They got trackers on Grace’s car. They know where Elias is."
