Chapter 3 - The Weight of History
“Help me pull this section out, Eleanor, there’s a body wedged beneath the main load-bearing beam,” Mark pleaded, his face pale under the harsh afternoon light streaming through the bay windows.
“If there’s a body down there, Mark, we call the police, we don’t play amateur rescue team in a house we are trying to flip for a quarter-million profit,” Eleanor hissed, pulling her phone from her pocket with trembling fingers.
“There’s no cellular signal in this room, El, look at the screen—it’s completely dead,” Mark said grimly, not looking up from his desperate excavation of the splintered joists.
“That’s impossible, the tower is three blocks away,” Eleanor muttered, holding the device higher before her expression hardened into pure frustration.
“It’s not the tower, it’s the lead-lined insulation Grandfather Sterling installed during the war; he didn’t want anyone listening in on his basement radio,” Mark explained quietly, his fingers closing around the damp fabric of the hidden coat.
“Radio? What are you talking about? My father was a municipal accountant, not a spy,” Eleanor snapped, though a flicker of genuine uncertainty crossed her usually unflappable features.
“Ask yourself why the basement stairs were bricked over the day after your mother passed away, El,” Mark challenged, giving the heavy fabric another sharp tug.
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With a sickening rip of rotting wool and damp earth, a rusted metal lockbox slid out from beneath the beam, tumbling onto the hardwood floor with a heavy, metallic thud.
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