Chapter 11 - The Wall Safe
The heavy oak door of Julian’s private study creaked open, revealing a room bathed in the harsh, focused beams of police flashlights. Forensic technicians moved with practiced efficiency around the mahogany desk, while Detective Vance stood directly in front of a heavy iron wall safe hidden behind a large oil painting of the estate.
Clara stood by the doorway, her arms wrapped tightly around her waist as she watched the technicians work.
"We need the physical override code or a biometric scan," the lead technician announced, shining a UV light across the digital keypad. "Standard forced entry will trigger the internal shredder mechanism."
Clara stepped forward hesitantly.
"Try Julian's birthday," she suggested quietly. "Not his real one. The date he legally changed his name after he moved to the country: October 14th."
The technician quickly punched in the sequence. A sharp, high-pitched beep echoed through the silent study, followed by a bright red flashing light on the keypad.
"Access denied. One attempt remaining," the technician warned, looking back at Vance with a tense expression.
Vance held up his hand, signaling the tech to pause. He looked closely at Clara, noting the hesitation in her eyes.
"Is there another number, Clara? Think carefully. A lot of lives depend on this," Vance urged, stepping closer.
Clara closed her eyes, remembering the old photograph she had found earlier in the living room album—the one showing Julian outside the mountain cabin next to the bruised woman. She remembered the date written on the back of the frame in neat, precise handwriting.
"Try the date of the fire," Clara whispered, her voice barely audible. "June 6th, ten years ago."
The technician hesitated, then typed the numbers into the keypad: 0606.
For a second, nothing happened. Then, with a loud, mechanical clunk, the heavy iron bolt disengaged, and the thick safe door slowly swung open on its own, revealing the dark interior.
May you like
Vance stepped forward, shining his flashlight inside. Resting on the felt-lined shelf was a single, old-fashioned audio cassette tape and a handwritten ledger. Vance reached in, pulled out the tape, and turned it over in his hand, his eyes widening in shock as he read the handwritten label: 'Elena – Final Insurance Policy.'
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