Chapter 10 - Locker 17We escaped through the hospital's service entrance.
Harold picked us up.
He didn't ask questions.
He simply said,
“Central Station.”
The station was nearly empty at midnight.
Harold stopped near a row of old metal lockers.
17 was at the end.
I stared at the keyhole.
No key.
“We need the key,” Harold said.
“It was stolen.”
“Then how did Donald expect you to open it?”
I remembered the note.
The number.
Then something clicked.
Donald had always told me that keys were never about the object.
They were about the person who knew how to use them.
I looked at the lock.
It wasn't a normal keyhole.
There was a small keypad beneath it.
I entered 17.
Nothing.
I entered my birth year.
Nothing.
Donald and my wedding year.
The lock clicked.
Harold stared at me.
“That's terrifying.”
Inside the locker was a small suitcase.
Black.
Old.
I opened it.
Three things.
A cassette tape.
A photograph.
And a sealed police file.
My hands shook as I opened the file.
The first page was a death certificate.
Donald Ellis.
I already knew that.
But the second page was not his.
It was a forensic report.
Cause of death: undetermined.
I looked up.
“Why was his death certificate issued as natural causes?”
Harold's face hardened.
“Because someone pressured the examiner.”
The report continued.
Small traces of a sedative had been found.
Not enough to cause death.
But enough to impair consciousness.
I felt sick.
He had been drugged.
The cassette contained audio.
Harold found an old player.
We listened.
Donald spoke first.
“If you're hearing this, then I didn't make it.”
Static.
Then another voice.
David.
“Where is the money?”
Donald coughed.
“You'll never find it.”
David slammed something onto a table.
“Where is the account?”
Donald laughed weakly.
“You think Margaret knows?”
“She doesn't.”
“Then you'll never find it.”
A pause.
Then David said,
“Stephanie will tell you.”
Donald's voice changed.
“You'd hurt your own wife?”
“Not if she cooperates.”
The recording went silent.
Then Donald spoke again.
“I moved it.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere none of you will ever find.”
A chair scraped.
David shouted.
Then another voice appeared.
Thomas.
“Leave him.”
The tape ended.
I stared into the darkness.
Harold whispered,
“There was another person in the room.”
“Who?”
“We don't know.”
I looked at the photograph.
It showed Donald.
David.
Thomas.
And one more person.
A woman.
My heart stopped.
I recognized her.
It was Linda.
My older sister.
My sister had died twelve years earlier.
Except the photograph was dated one month before Donald's death.
I couldn't breathe.
“That's impossible.”
Harold looked at the photo.
“Who is she?”
“My sister.”
“You said she was dead.”
“She is.”
We turned the photograph over.
A message was written on the back.
She was never supposed to be dead.
I stood frozen.
Harold slowly took out his phone.
“We have to verify this.”
“How?”
He searched an old database.
Then stared at the screen.
“Margaret…”
“What?”
“Your sister didn't die twelve years ago.”
I felt the blood drain from my face.
“What?”
“The death certificate belongs to another woman.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
He turned the screen toward me.
There was a record.
My sister had been living under another name.
For years.
The final entry showed her address.
I stared at it.
It was the Hale Estate.
The house I had seen earlier.
The house Stephanie had claimed not to know about.
I whispered,
“She lives there.”
Harold nodded.
“Apparently.”
I reached for my phone.
Then stopped.
“What if she's the one behind all of this?”
Before Harold could answer, his phone rang.
He listened for three seconds.
Then looked at me.
“What?”
“Police found a body.”
My heart pounded.
“Whose?”
He swallowed.
“David Hale.”
“Where?”
“Your old house.”
I stared at him.
“But the house was supposed to be empty.”
“It was.”
“Then why was his body there?”
Harold's voice dropped.
“Because someone left him inside the basement.”
I thought about the safe.
The hidden files.
The videos.
Then he added,
“They also left a message written in blood.”
“What message?”
May you like
Harold looked directly at me.
MARGARET IS NEXT.
