The wail of police sirens cut through the storm’s din, growing louder. Headlights flashed through the front windows, painting streaks of light across the main hall.
Sheriff Hollister and Deputy Higgins were here. Julian Croft wouldn’t be far behind.
I didn’t waste a second. My brass key, the one that felt like an extension of my own hand, slid into the ornate keyhole of the brass box. It turned with a satisfying click, smooth as if it had been used yesterday.
The heavy lid lifted with a soft sigh of ancient air. Inside, nestled on a bed of faded velvet, lay a single, thick document.
It was yellowed parchment, folded precisely, with wet-ink signatures still stark and clear on its surface. My fingers trembled slightly as I lifted it out.
The title across the top, in elegant, old-fashioned script, read: “THE OAKHAVEN COVENANT – OCTOBER 14, 1982.”
The original hand-signed document. Complete with town seals, still crisp, still official. The very paper Dr. Marsh had speculated about.
I unfolded it carefully, the parchment crackling softly. It contained the unredacted reversion terms, governing the entire eighty-acre property, not just the workshop.
A car door slammed outside. Footsteps crunched on the gravel, approaching the front door.
I glanced at the names and clauses, my eyes scanning for familiar words. Silas Peterson’s signature, bold and unmistakable. Then, below it, my own name, Arthur Pendelton, clearly marked as his successor, the named heir.
The reversion clause, the very one Dr. Marsh had uncovered in the archives, was there in plain sight. It wasn’t just a lease. It was a covenant, a solemn agreement.
The main door creaked open, letting in a gust of wind and the smell of wet earth. Sheriff Hollister’s flashlight beam swept across the foyer, landing on me, standing by the shattered hearth, the ancient document in my hands.
Behind him, I heard the distinct, arrogant voice of Julian Croft.
“There he is! Caught red-handed, Sheriff! Breaking and entering, just as I reported!”
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