Chapter 3 - The Hive Under The FloorSomeone Had Been Searching My Farm Long Before Dante Arrived
We stayed underground for almost an hour.
I didn't hear the gunfire stop.
I heard vehicles.
Footsteps.
Men shouting.
Then silence.
Dante finally unlocked the basement door.
Marco went first.
The house looked like a storm had passed through it.
Broken glass covered the kitchen floor.
A bullet had lodged inside the refrigerator.
I stared at it.
"People do this often around you?"
Dante's mouth tightened.
"Less often than before."
"That isn't reassuring."
He looked at me.
"I'm trying."
"Try harder."
We returned to my farm after sunrise.
Or what was left of it.
My market stall was gone.
My pickup had two bullet holes.
The barn door was hanging open.
I stopped walking.
"No."
Dante touched my shoulder.
"Don't go in."
I pulled away.
"My bees."
The hives behind the barn had been smashed.
Several boxes were overturned.
Honey was soaking into the ground.
Thousands of bees circled above the wreckage.
I nearly cried.
Not because of the honey.
Because my father had built those hives.
I had spent eight years keeping them alive after his death.
Dante stood beside me.
"I'll replace everything."
I laughed bitterly.
"You can't replace bees."
He looked at the shattered boxes.
"I know."
We began searching the barn.
Three hours later, Marco found boot prints.
Someone had entered through the back.
Someone had opened the floorboards.
Dante crouched.
"Here."
I looked.
One plank had been removed.
Underneath it was a narrow cavity.
Empty.
"What was here?" I asked.
Dante looked at me.
"That's what they were looking for."
I knelt.
"My father built this."
"Yes."
"So maybe he put something here."
Dante carefully lifted the neighboring board.
Nothing.
Another.
Nothing.
Then I noticed something.
Beeswax.
A thin line of yellow wax had sealed a small wooden compartment beneath the floor.
I touched it.
"Dante."
He leaned over.
"Don't."
"Why?"
"The wax."
"What about it?"
"That's fresh."
My skin prickled.
"Fresh?"
"Someone opened it recently."
Marco appeared behind us.
Dante pointed.
Marco took out a knife.
He sliced through the wax.
A tiny brass box emerged.
I stared at it.
"My father?"
Dante opened the lid.
Inside was a single key.
Not the brass key from Sofia's photograph.
Another.
This one had a number engraved on it.
And beneath it was a folded piece of paper.
I opened it.
Three words.
SAINT AGNES.
Dante went still.
"You know that place?"
"Yes."
"What is it?"
"An abandoned church."
"Where?"
"About forty miles from here."
I looked at the key.
"Why would my father hide a key there?"
Dante didn't answer.
Marco's phone rang.
He answered.
"What?"
His face changed.
He turned to Dante.
"We have a problem."
Dante stared at him.
"What?"
"The police are here."
I frowned.
"Police?"
Marco nodded.
"State police."
Dante's eyes narrowed.
"How many?"
"Six."
"Anyone familiar?"
Marco hesitated.
"Detective Elias Grant."
Dante's expression became unreadable.
"That's impossible."
I looked between them.
"Why?"
Dante took the key from my hand.
"Because Elias Grant has been dead for three years."
The back door of the barn opened.
A man's voice spoke from outside.
"Nora Bennett?"
I froze.
Dante raised his gun.
The voice came again.
"We need to talk about your father."
Then the door slammed open.
A man stepped inside.
He was wearing a Pennsylvania State Police jacket.
His face was older than the man in the photograph.
But the eyes were identical.
He looked directly at Dante.
"You really should have stayed away from her."
Dante lifted his weapon.
The man smiled.
"I'm not your enemy."
May you like
He held up both hands.
"I'm the reason Sofia died."
Related Stories
