Chapter 6 - The Key to the Past
The digital clock on my microwave glowed 8:15 PM. The silence of the desert evening was punctuated only by the distant hum of traffic on Scottsdale Road and the steady tick of the wall clock in the kitchen.
Patrick stared at the glowing screen of my phone, his jaw set. "Safety deposit box? Evelyn told me before we were separated that she kept a private vault at the First National Bank downtown—one that Brenda's name was explicitly not on."
"Mom always said Grandma was broke when she died," I said, pacing slowly across the tile floor. "She told me the house was literally all that was left, and even then, she bitched about how unfair it was that Evelyn left it to me instead of splitting it between Chloe and me."
"Your grandmother wasn't broke, Alyssa," Jason chimed in, leaning back against the counter and crossing his massive arms. "Evelyn worked forty years as a senior accountant for a major land development firm. She understood real estate inside and out. She knew exactly what Brenda was like—greedy, manipulative, and allergic to honest work. There’s no way she left her hard-earned assets unprotected."
"The text came from a local number," I noted, tapping the screen to examine the metadata. "And whoever sent it knows about the safety deposit box. That means it’s either someone who worked with Evelyn at the bank, or..." I hesitated, a cold realization dawning on me. "...or Mom lied about cleaning out Evelyn's estate entirely."
Patrick stood up, sliding his phone into his utility pants pocket. "Tomorrow morning, banks are closed. But we don't need a bank open to find out who has keys to Evelyn's past. We need to visit Aunt Laura."
"Aunt Laura?" I asked, surprised. "Mom keeps her locked down tighter than a vault. She barely leaves her apartment."
"Laura was Evelyn's primary caregiver during her final year," Patrick said, his voice carrying a note of quiet determination. "And more importantly, Laura was the only person your mother trusted to manage Evelyn's personal paperwork. If there's a key or a document hidden anywhere outside of Brenda's reach, Laura knows where it is."
An hour later, Patrick, Jason, and I pulled up outside Aunt Laura’s modest, aging apartment complex off Thomas Road. The parking lot was dim, illuminated only by buzzing amber security lights that cast long, eerie shadows across the stucco walls.
We climbed the concrete stairs to the second floor and walked down the open-air breezeway to apartment 204. The door was slightly ajar.
A thin sliver of yellow light cut across the dark doormat, and from inside, we could hear the muffled sound of frantic rummaging—drawers sliding open, cardboard boxes being tossed aside, and a soft, terrified whimpering.
I froze, grabbing Patrick’s arm. "Dad... someone's inside."
Patrick gestured for Jason to stay back, stepping silently up to the partially open door. He pushed it gently with two fingers, peering into the living room.
The place was completely torn apart. Sofa cushions were ripped off and tossed on the floor, bookshelves were emptied onto the carpet, and standing in the middle of the wreckage was a familiar, furious figure.
Brenda.
Her hair was disheveled, her blouse half-untucked, and in her hands, she clutched a small, locked metal cash box, frantically trying to force the latch open with a heavy kitchen knife.
"Where is it, Laura?!" Brenda screamed, spinning around to face the corner of the room.
That was when I saw Aunt Laura, huddled in an armchair, shaking violently, clutching a blanket around her shoulders with tears streaming down her face.
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"I don't have it, Brenda! I swear I don't!" Laura sobbed. "You took everything years ago!"
"You're lying!" Brenda shrieked, raising the knife like a weapon. "Evelyn left a secondary key! I saw her give it to you the week before she died! Where is the key to the downtown safety deposit box?!"
