Chapter 61

Chapter 61
It was another day.

Kaitlyn sat alone in the study with the door half closed, the same ledger open on the desk. 

She had not slept. Every time she closed her eyes, the same line returned to her.

Reagen… arranged the fall… family blood was cleared.

Her father’s numbers had given her that.

She ran a finger down the column again, more to keep her hands busy than to find anything new. She had told no one, not even Callum. Not yet. 

She kept hearing his voice in her head, telling her to wait, to think, to move at the right time. But waiting was dangerous.

A soft sound broke the silence.

Paper slid under the door.

Kaitlyn tensed. She didn’t move right away. She listened. The hall beyond the study was empty. There were no footsteps, or voices. Only that thin rectangle of white on the rug.

She stood, crossed the room quietly, and picked it up. No name on the front. Plain envelope with no seal. She turned it over once, then twice, and broke it open at the top with her thumb.

Inside were two things; a small key wrapped in tissue, and a folded strip of paper cut from the corner of some report.

She set the key on the desk and unfolded the paper.

Block letters, printed… no handwriting to trace.
NOT HERE. SECOND VAULT.
CHECK WHAT THE FLOOR KEEPS.
USE THE OLD COUNT.

She stared at the words. Her heartbeat raced fast.

Her father’s voice came back to her at once… every truth has a mask, Katie.

She swallowed hard, eyes going to the floorboards along the wall under the windows. The study had been built to last. But when she looked now, she noticed the slight seam along the third board from the corner. 

Has that always been there? She couldn’t tell if she had missed it or if she had never looked.

She read the note again, slow this time, testing each word against memory. Old count. Her father had taught her a simple way to hide things in plain sight… count by threes, then by sevens, then by tens. 

If the third led nowhere, try the seventh, then the tenth. A habit only they would know.

She slid the ledger aside and knelt by the window.

The third board. She pressed her palm against it and felt a little shift, the faintest lift at one end. Her pulse jumped. 

She dug her nails under the edge and worked the board up, careful not to splinter it. It resisted, then gave way with a soft click. Beneath it sat a narrow cavity, black in the lamplight.

Her breath fogged the wood as she leaned closer. Something wrapped in old waxed cloth lay inside, tucked to the far side. She reached in, pulled it free, and unwrapped it on the rug.

A small tin, the size of her palm. She flicked the latch open.

Inside, folded once more, was a thin sheet of paper, brittle with age, and a small card from an old private bank… Hawthorne Private Custody, Ravenport.

The card showed a box number and a line for a phrase. The line was blank.

Her fingers shook a little as she unfolded the sheet.

Her father’s handwriting. Clear. 

Katie,

If you have found this, then I did not stop what was coming. I am sorry. I set two vaults to guard what matters. The first gold copies and bait. The second holds the originals and the knife that will cut the hand behind us. 

Do not trust any door with hinges or a lock in plain view. The second vault is hidden under the first place everyone searches.

Use the old count to reach it. Use the phrase you hated to say when you were little… you told me it sounded like a lie. That is the key.

Be careful who you trust.

—Dad

Kaitlyn closed her eyes, pressing her lips together until the tremble in her jaw stopped. 

She thought about the kitchen table in their house, the white napkin with little squares where her father had written codes for her to break, his easy smile when she did. 

She remembered the night she lost them.

She opened her eyes and read the note again.

First holds copies and bait. Second holds the originals. The knife that will cut the hand behind us.

Her gaze dropped to the bank card again… box number, and a line for a phrase.

The phrase you hated to say when you were little… you told me it sounded like a lie.

She searched her memory, flipping through old sounds, and arguments.

She could hear her own angry and stubborn voice… I am fine. No, that wasn't it. I don't need help. Maybe. Or… her father's laugh, the way he teased her into repeating a silly saying when she pouted.

Thank you kindly. No, she had liked that one because it made him laugh. 

What phrase had felt like a lie?

It came to her slowly. She had been seven, when she had fallen on the driveway, scraped both knees, and he had picked her up and said, Say the words, kid.

She had mumbled them, hating each one.

“It was an accident.”

She whispered them out. It was an accident. She had hated that phrase because it always felt like an excuse, like a way to avoid truth. It was the kind of thing people said when they didn’t want to name who did it.

A second vault. A hidden phrase. A bank box that needed both… a physical key and a sentence only she and her father would know.

Her eyes moved to the small key that had come in the envelope. She picked it up. It wasn’t a normal cut; the edge had a narrow notch like a bite had been taken from it. 

She slid it against the bank card. The metal matched the tiny outline printed next to KEY REQUIRED. Whoever sent the envelope knew this card existed. Whoever sent it wanted her to find this.

Kaitlyn looked toward the door.

Who had pushed the envelope under it?

Callum? No. He would have walked in and handed it to her. Vincent? Unlikely. He pressed, he pushed, but he didn’t hide warnings in the night. 

That left one person who moved without sound, who had access to every room, who seemed to appear and vanish on cue.

Moore.

She pictured him standing in the hall, a dark suit blending with the shadows, his face unreadable as always.  

If Moore had found something that could keep her alive, he would not waste time. He would not sign his name. He would simply put it where it needed to be.

“Thank you,” she said into the empty room. She didn’t expect an answer.

She refolded her father’s note along the old creases, slid it into the tin with the bank card, and then put both into her notebook. 

The little key was slipped into the inner pocket of her jacket.

Then she put the floorboard back. The wood clicked into place as if it had never been moved.

She stood and checked the door. The hall was empty, as before. She turned the lock…