Chapter 4
The brass key hit the floor with a sharp ping that echoed through the quiet hallway, its rotation slowing until the jagged teeth pointed unerringly toward the heavy wooden door leading down to the cellar. Mark stared down at the metal, a knot tightening in his stomach. That key didn't belong to the front door; it was the exact duplicate of the archive room at his former employer’s downtown headquarters—a room he hadn’t visited since the night of the corporate audit.
"Don't touch it, Mark," Sarah said, stepping out from the kitchen with her arms crossed, her face hardened by a sudden, protective fury. "If Arthur Vance thinks he can drop his little games on our welcome mat and expect us to dance, he's insane. We’re calling the police. Right now."
"And tell them what?" Mark asked, his voice low and bitter. "That our toddler found a mysterious key on the porch after quoting my former boss? They’ll put us on a psychiatric hold before the squad car even leaves the precinct. You know how those security contracts work. Vance owns half the municipality."
Leo walked over, picked up the brass key with surprising dexterity, and held it out toward Sarah. "Mommy has the box," the toddler said, his tone entirely devoid of childish playfulness, carrying instead the measured cadence of an adult delivering bad news.
Sarah recoiled as if the key were burning hot. "He’s doing it again. Mark, how does he know about the lockbox in the attic? I haven't mentioned that box to anyone since my mother passed away."
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Mark took the key from his son’s small hand, feeling the cold metal bite into his palm. The air in the hallway suddenly grew colder, the scent of pipe tobacco growing stronger, drifting up from the cellar stairs even though the basement door remained tightly shut and locked from the outside.
Slowly, the cellar door began to rattle from within, accompanied by the distinct sound of someone dragging a heavy wooden crate across the concrete floor below.
