At first glance, it looked exactly as Helen had described. Boxes were stacked along the walls. Old sheets covered what appeared to be furniture. Cobwebs stretched from beam to beam.
But in the far corner, separate from everything else, sat a large oak trunk. It was heavy, with tarnished brass corners and another padlock fastened across the latch.
It didn’t look like junk. It looked guarded.
The next morning, I drove to the rehabilitation center as usual. Helen was sitting up in bed after her therapy session, pale but determined. I pulled a chair close to her bedside.
“I’ve been hearing scratching at night,” I said carefully. “I thought maybe something got into the attic. What’s in that trunk up there?”
The transformation in her was immediate. The color drained from her face. Her hand trembled so badly she nearly dropped the cup she was holding.
“You didn’t open it, did you?” she whispered. “Russell, please tell me you didn’t.”
I hadn’t, not yet. But the fear in her eyes told me that whatever was in that trunk was more than old furniture.
That night, sleep was impossible. Around midnight, I went back upstairs with a pair of bolt cutters.
The lock snapped more easily than I expected.
