Chapter 2 - THE LOCKED DOOR
The upstairs hallway smelled of fresh paint and expensive lavender room spray. The old carpet had been ripped out, replaced by dark hardwood floors that echoed beneath my boots.
I walked down the corridor, observing every detail.
Four years ago, this house was a modest, four-bedroom suburban home funded by my father’s modest life insurance policy and my military enlistment bonus. Now, it looked like a boutique hotel in downtown Chicago. Framed modern art hung on the walls. Recessed LED lighting illuminated the ceiling.
I reached the master bedroom door at the end of the hall.
I placed my hand on the polished brass doorknob and turned it.
Locked.
I frowned, twisting it firmer. The bolt was firmly engaged from the outside—a heavy, key-operated deadbolt that had clearly been newly installed into the door frame.
Why would a master bedroom have a keyhole lock on the hallway side?
"David?"
I turned around to see Paige standing a few feet away, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. The nervousness in her eyes was masked by a forced, casual smile.
"Mom sent me up to tell you that the master bedroom is being renovated," Paige said quickly. "The plumbing in the master bath leaked last week. The floorboards are ruined. Gwen has been sleeping in the small room down the hall."
She pointed toward a narrow door tucked next to the linen closet—a room that used to be a small walk-in storage pantry when I was a teenager.
I looked at the locked deadbolt on the master bedroom, then at the pantry door.
"A plumbing leak," I repeated flatly.
"Yeah. Nasty stuff," Paige said, tapping her acrylic nails against her arm. "Anyway, your bags can go in the pantry room for now. Mom is having a caterer bring over dinner tonight to celebrate your return."
"Where did the money come from, Paige?" I asked out of nowhere.
Paige froze, her nails stopping mid-tap. "What?"
"The renovations. The marble. The luxury truck in the driveway," I said, stepping closer to her. I towered over my sister, letting the heavy weight of my physical presence press against her. "I sent roughly twenty-two hundred dollars home every month. That’s enough for mortgage, groceries, and a modest safety net. It doesn't pay for custom stonework and diamond necklaces."
Paige swallowed hard, her eyes darting away. "Mom... Mom made some smart investments. In the stock market. She’s really good at it."
"Investments," I said. "Right."
"Look, David, why are you acting like this?" Paige snapped, her defensive anger flaring up again. "You've been gone for four years! You don't know what we've been through! We took care of this house! We took care of your wife when she went downhill!"
"Downhill how?"
"Ask her yourself!" Paige snarled, turning on her heel and marching back toward the stairs. "She’s the one who let herself fall apart!"
I watched Paige descend the stairs until her footsteps faded.
Once she was gone, I turned back to the pantry door. I reached out and turned the simple silver knob. It opened with a faint creak.
The room was no bigger than a walk-in closet. There were no windows. The air was cold, smelling faintly of damp concrete and bleach. On the floor sat a thin, worn mattress covered by a single, faded fleece blanket.
Beside the mattress was a small plastic nightstand. On top of it sat a plastic cup of water, a bottle of generic painkillers, and a small, frayed blue ribbon.
I recognized the ribbon immediately. I had given it to Gwen on the day I passed selection for my deployment unit. She had worn it in her hair the morning I boarded the transport bus.
She hadn't slept in the master bedroom for a long time. This was her cell.
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My hands began to shake—not from fear, but from a terrifying, cold fury that threatened to break every bone in my body. I walked into the dark closet, sat down on the edge of the thin mattress, and buried my face in my hands.
Observe, I told myself, fighting back the roar in my head. Gather evidence. Wait.
