Chapter 3: Dấu vết trên cát

The next morning, the Cinderlands awoke with a palpable tension.

Ethan’s “promotion” ceremony loomed, and with it, the signing of the water rights deed. Eleanor, however, had a different agenda. Driven by Anya’s legacy and Lena’s cryptic hint, her focus was now squarely on Bartholomew “Barty” Finch, Silas’s notoriously slippery accountant.

She knew he held the key.

Her first step was subtle reconnaissance. She couldn’t storm his office; that would be suicide. Instead, she spent the early hours observing the compound’s routines, trying to ascertain Barty’s movements without drawing attention. He was a creature of habit, a fact Silas likely exploited.

Barty’s “office” was a ramshackle lean-to attached to the side of the main Kincaid warehouse, separate from the family’s living quarters. It was a place designed for both privacy and isolation, perfect for illicit dealings. A single, grimy window looked out onto a dusty, infrequently used service road.

Eleanor watched from a distance, hidden behind a stack of weathered supply crates. Barty arrived punctually, a thin, nervous man with spectacles perched precariously on his nose, clutching a worn leather briefcase. He unlocked the door with a series of fiddly movements, constantly glancing over his shoulder. He moved like a ferret, perpetually on edge.

The air in the Cinderlands compound was thick with anticipation. Small groups of residents gathered, speaking in hushed tones. Their faces were etched with a mix of fear and resignation. They knew what this signing meant for their future.

Eleanor tried to engage a few of them, asking about the water situation, but she was met with evasive answers, lowered gazes, and a pervasive sense of fear.

“It’s Kincaid business, El,” an old woman whispered, quickly turning away. “Best not to ask.”

A young man, catching her eye, just shook his head and gestured vaguely towards Silas’s heavily guarded main residence. “Power flows from there now,” he said, his voice flat. “Always has, really.”

The resistance was not active, but passive – a wall of communal apprehension that made it clear how thoroughly Silas had instilled fear in the Cinderlands. No one wanted to cross him, even for Eleanor.

She understood. Survival in the Cinderlands was a precarious dance, and Silas Kincaid was the undisputed master of the floor.

Eleanor returned to observing Barty. Through the grimy window, she could see him hunched over a desk, piles of papers surrounding him. He constantly shuffled documents, scribbling in ledgers, and occasionally, with furtive glances, pulling out a small, intricately carved wooden box from under his desk. He’d open it, place a document inside, and then carefully lock it away again.

Her eyes narrowed. That box wasn’t just a container; it was a safe, or a cache. A hidden compartment, exactly as Elias and Lena had hinted.

After several hours, Barty finally emerged, looking pale and even more agitated. He locked his office with meticulous care, tugging at the door handle twice to ensure it was secure. He seemed to be headed towards the main compound for the ceremony preparations.

This was her chance.

She waited until he was out of sight, then cautiously approached the lean-to. The wooden door was old, weathered by years of desert sun, but the lock looked robust. She ran her fingers over the cold metal, testing its resistance. Picking it wouldn’t be easy, and it would leave a trace.

She needed another way in, or at least a distraction.

Eleanor decided to try Lena again, hoping for more insight into Barty’s habits. She found Lena in the shadows of the Kincaid’s secondary storage shed, sorting through sacks of dried grains. Lena jumped when Eleanor spoke her name.

“You’re still here, El?” Lena whispered, her eyes wide. “Barty’s office… you’re not thinking of going in there, are you?”

“Elias said the ledger is the key,” Eleanor explained, keeping her voice low. “And you confirmed he keeps them. I need to see what’s inside that box.”

Lena wrung her hands. “It’s suicide, El. Silas would flay you alive. Barty never leaves that office unattended for long. He’s paranoid. He practically sleeps with those ledgers.”

“He just went to the main compound,” Eleanor countered. “For the ceremony. How long will he be there?”

Lena hesitated, her gaze darting towards the distant sounds of activity. “The pre-ceremony briefing… it could be an hour, maybe more, if Silas is feeling chatty. But Barty’s usually back before anything important starts. He’s got a nervous twitch about leaving his papers.”

“Does he have any weaknesses? Any habits?” Eleanor pressed.

Lena thought for a moment, chewing her lip. “He’s terrified of dust storms. Says it’ll ruin his papers. And he has this thing… always goes for the strongest coffee in the compound. Brewed by old Man Jenkins, near the south wall. He says it ‘sharpens his mind’ before he dives into Silas’s numbers.”

Eleanor processed this. A dust storm. Too unpredictable. But the coffee…

“Where’s Man Jenkins’ coffee stand?” Eleanor asked.

“Just past the stables, on the way to the old trade route,” Lena replied. “But El, it’s too risky. What if he comes back early? What if someone sees you?”

“I have to know, Lena,” Eleanor said firmly. “My mother tried to protect this place. I need to know how.”

Lena looked at her, a flicker of admiration mixing with her fear. “He hides the key,” she finally conceded, her voice barely a breath. “For that little wooden box, I mean. He doesn’t trust anyone, not even Silas, with his really important stuff.”

“Where?”

“He keeps it on a chain around his neck,” Lena whispered, “but he tucks it deep into his shirt when he’s at the office. Only ever takes it off when he washes up, or… when he gets really stressed and fidgety. He’ll take it off and rub it for luck, he says. Puts it on the edge of his desk.”

Eleanor nodded, committing the detail to memory. This was invaluable. The key. Not just the compartment, but the key to the *box*.

She left Lena, a newfound urgency propelling her. The ceremony would start soon, and Barty would be back at his desk, ready to sign away the Cinderlands’ future. She needed to act, and she needed to be quick.

Her plan began to take shape. She would create a distraction, a brief window of opportunity. Something small, something that would make Barty fidget, that would make him need that strong coffee, and that would make him briefly take off his guard.

She circled back towards Barty’s office, staying out of sight. The air was getting hotter, the wind picking up, stirring up small eddies of dust. She noticed a loose section of corrugated metal on the warehouse roof, directly above Barty’s lean-to. It was old, rusted, and precariously attached.

An idea sparked.

She found a length of discarded rope near the stables and, with careful movements honed from years of navigating the treacherous Cinderlands terrain, scaled the side of the warehouse, staying low and out of sight. The metal shrieked under her weight, a sound that would undoubtedly draw attention if anyone were close. Luckily, most of the compound was congregating for the ceremony.

Reaching the roof, she approached the loose metal sheet. It was just above Barty’s office. With a calculated shove, she dislodged it further. It hung precariously, swaying in the wind, threatening to fall. It would make a hell of a racket when it finally did.

She quickly descended, her heart pounding. The metal sheet, buffeted by the rising wind, began to creak and groan, creating a low, unsettling vibration that echoed through the otherwise quiet corner of the compound. Anyone nearby would hear it.

Eleanor concealed herself behind a pile of old tires, watching. It was a risky move, but she was out of options.

Minutes later, just as the distant drums for the ceremony began to beat a slow, rhythmic pulse, Barty Finch emerged from the main compound, his face a mask of anxiety. He hurried towards his office, his eyes fixed on the rattling metal sheet above. He fumbled with his keys, unlocked the door, and slipped inside, casting a worried glance upwards.

Eleanor waited, her breath held. The drumming grew louder, more insistent.

Suddenly, a loud clang reverberated through the air. The metal sheet had finally given way, crashing onto the lean-to’s roof with a deafening racket, sending a shower of dust and debris down onto Barty’s office.

A muffled shout came from inside.

Eleanor waited for another minute, then she saw Barty, looking disheveled and frantic, burst out of his office. He frantically brushed dust from his hair and clothes, his spectacles askew. He glanced at the fallen metal, then towards the ceremonial gathering, then back at his office, a picture of indecision.

His eyes darted towards the direction of Man Jenkins’ coffee stand. He needed a moment. A strong coffee. A chance to calm his jangled nerves before the signing.

He locked his office, though with less precision than before, and then, muttering to himself, scurried off towards the coffee stand, his nervous energy propelling him forward.

This was her window. A slim one, but a window nonetheless.

Eleanor emerged from her hiding spot. The drumming was now a full, driving rhythm. The ceremony was about to begin. She had mere minutes, perhaps less. She raced towards Barty’s office, the weight of Anya’s legacy and the future of the Cinderlands resting on her shoulders.

She had to get in. And she had to find that box.