Aunt Maeve’s physical therapy appointment was my only window. I waited until I heard the distant rumble of her rideshare pulling out of the driveway, then slipped down the hall. The door to her bedroom, usually slightly ajar, was closed. I eased it open, the old wood groaning softly.
The room smelled faintly of lavender and stale air. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight slicing through the heavy curtains. The Revox deck sat on its cabinet, silent and unassuming. I glanced at the bed, meticulously made, then turned my attention to the floorboards. Grandfather always had a thing for hiding things.
I tapped along the perimeter of the room, listening for a hollow sound. Near the closet, by the built-in bookshelves, my knuckles hit a spot that gave a dull thud. Not solid. I knelt, pushing aside a faded rug, and there it was: a cleverly disguised seam in the hardwood.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I dug my fingernails into the crack, prying upward. The section of flooring lifted with a soft sigh of displaced air. Beneath, nestled in the cool darkness, were two small, metal lockboxes. They were dull brass, slightly tarnished, and locked tight.
Just as my fingers brushed against the cool metal, a sound cut through the quiet house. The distinct click of the front door opening. Marcus Jr. He was home early. Too early. My blood ran cold.
I froze, the lockboxes still exposed. My mind raced. The front door slammed shut, reverberating through the house. I could hear his heavy footsteps approaching down the hall, the jingle of his keys. There wasn’t time to replace the floorboard, let alone hide the lockboxes. My eyes darted around the room, desperate. The window! It was old, probably stuck. But it was my only option. I grabbed the lockboxes, adrenaline surging, and scrambled towards the sash.
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