Chapter 3 - The Lock on the Third Floor
The sirens grew louder, their sharp, rhythmic shrieks echoing down Willow Street until three white-and-blue Fairmont Police cruisers pulled onto the lawn, their red and blue lights strobing against the white canvas funeral tent.
Detective Chief Thomas Miller—a tall, grey-haired man who had known my father for twenty years—was the first through the door. Three uniformed officers followed him, their hands resting cautiously on their duty belts.
“Ethan,” Miller said, taking in the scene: my weeping mother, Aunt Barbara glaring from beside the casket, Nolan pinned against the kitchen doorway, and me holding Maisie tightly against my hip. “We got your call. What’s going on here?”
“Tom, thank God you’re here,” my mother interrupted, rushing forward with tears streaming down her face. “My son has lost his mind! He’s grieving, he’s exhausted from work, and he’s making horrific accusations against his own brother in front of our family!”
Miller raised a hand, looking at my mother with a measured, unreadable expression. “Diane, let me speak to Ethan.” He turned back to me. “Ethan, what are you claiming happened?”
“My wife didn't die of natural causes,” I said, my voice vibrating with restrained fury. “She was locked in the third-floor study on Tuesday night. Nolan and my mother trapped her in there after she discovered they were forging my father’s signature to steal the estate. Maisie witnessed it. Mrs. Gable heard it. And my father...” I pointed to my dad, who was nodding emphatically from his wheelchair, “...is testifying with every ounce of strength he has left.”
Detective Miller looked at Nolan. “Nolan, step away from the stairs and keep your hands where I can see them.”
“This is bullshit, Tom!” Nolan shouted, though his voice cracked with panic. “Laura had an enlarged heart! She collapsed! We tried to give her CPR, but it was too late! We didn't call an ambulance right away because... because we were in shock!”
“In shock for three days?” I snapped. “You didn't call me! You paid off Pike to keep my phone dead!”
Miller turned to one of his officers. “Officer Hayes, take Nolan and Mrs. Vance into the dining room. Separate them. No talking.”
“You can’t do this!” Aunt Barbara yelled, stepping in front of Officer Hayes. “I am the director of Vance Funeral Services! The death certificate was signed by Dr. Evans!”
“Dr. Evans is your brother-in-law, Barbara,” Miller said coldly. “And his medical license is currently under review by the county board. Hayes, move her out of the way.”
While the officers cleared the main living room, Miller turned to me. “Ethan, show me the study.”
I nodded, handing Maisie over to Mrs. Gable, who promised to keep her safe in the kitchen. Then, holding the small brass key Maisie had pressed into my hand, I led Detective Miller up the wide oak staircase.
The air grew colder as we climbed to the third floor. The third floor had always been Laura’s sanctuary—a spacious, sunlit attic room converted into her graphic design studio.
When we reached the landing, I stopped dead in my tracks.
The heavy solid-oak door to the studio was shut. But around the brass deadbolt, the wood was splintered and cracked, as if someone had forced it open with a crowbar or a heavy shoulder. Even more disturbing was a newly installed, industrial-grade iron sliding latch screwed into the outside frame of the door—a latch that could only be operated from the hallway.
“Look at that, Miller,” I said, my hand trembling as I pointed to the latch. “Why would a home studio need an exterior sliding bolt?”
Miller pulled a pair of latex gloves from his pocket and put them on. He examined the fresh metal screws. “These were put in recently. The wood shavings are still on the carpet.”
I held up the small brass key Maisie had given me. It didn't belong to the sliding latch. Attached to the key was a tiny, high-speed SanDisk micro-SD card—the kind Laura used in her professional cameras.
“Laura left this for me,” I whispered. “She gave it to Maisie before they locked her in.”
Miller nodded toward the door. “Let’s open it.”
I slid the exterior iron latch back with a harsh, metallic screech. Then I inserted the brass key into the original, splintered lock. It turned with a soft click.
I pushed the door open.
The room was in total disarray. Papers, architectural drawings, and hard drives were scattered across the floor. Laura’s drafting table was overturned. On the far wall, near the window overlooking the backyard, were deep, dark smudges on the wallpaper—fingerprints smeared in grease and dust, where someone had pounded furiously against the glass.
And on the desk, sitting right in the center of the room, was Laura’s laptop. The screen was cracked, but the power light was still blinking slowly—plugged into an uninterrupted power supply unit beneath the desk.
Miller stepped inside, careful not to disturb the crime scene. “Don't touch the laptop, Ethan. We need forensics.”
“I don't need to touch it,” I said, pointing to the desk.
Sitting right beside the keyboard was a small, battery-powered security camera—a nanny cam Laura had purchased two months ago when she suspected someone was entering her studio while we were asleep.
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The camera’s micro-SD slot was empty.
I looked down at the tiny memory card clutched in my glove. The missing piece of the puzzle was sitting right in the palm of my hand.
