Chapter 6
The interior of the house smelled faintly of old paper, lemon furniture polish, and the lingering, stale scent of pipe tobacco that Julian’s father had favored for decades. As Eleanor pushed the heavy white door open the rest of the way, the hinges gave a familiar, mournful squeak that made Julian flinch. He stepped across the threshold hesitantly, as if expecting the floorboards to collapse beneath him. His eyes scanned the entryway, noting the polished oak floorboards, the framed watercolor paintings of the local coastline, and the coat rack where his father's wool trench coat still hung, draped like a silent ghost.
"It looks untouched," Julian murmured, his hand brushing lightly against the polished wood of the console table by the door. "It feels like he just stepped out to get the mail."
Eleanor set her hammer down on the entryway bench, taking off her pearl earrings and slipping them into her cardigan pocket with a deliberate, calming motion. "Your father lived in a state of suspended animation, Julian. He believed that if he didn't look at the mail, the bills didn't exist. If he didn't open the safe, the debt wasn't real. But reality has a stubborn way of catching up to us all."
Julian walked slowly down the short hallway toward the back of the house, his sneakers making no sound on the thick Persian runner rug. He paused outside the double doors of the den—the room he had been barred from entering since he was a teenager. The brass handles were cold to the touch. He reached out, his fingers wrapping around the right knob, but hesitated. He looked back over his shoulder at Eleanor, who had followed him quietly at a respectful distance.
"Is it in here?" Julian asked, his voice small, stripped of all the bluster and arrogance he had worn like armor out on the porch.
May you like
"Yes," Eleanor replied softly. "The safe is behind the mahogany bookshelves on the east wall. Push on the third shelf from the bottom, right beneath the leather-bound set of encyclopedia Britannicas."
Julian turned the knob and pushed the double doors open. The room was bathed in a dim, amber light filtering through heavy velvet drapes that had not been drawn back in years. Dust motes danced lazily in the shafts of sunlight. He walked straight to the mahogany bookcase, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He found the third shelf, pressed his palm against the dark wood, and felt a satisfying click. The entire bookcase swung inward on hidden hinges with a soft, pneumatic hiss, revealing a heavy, digital-dial wall safe inset into the concrete foundation.
