Chapter 2 - THE LOCKED DOOR AND THE WHISPERS OF THE PASTThe oak staircase groaned beneath my boots as I ascended toward the second floor, each step feeling heavier than the last. Behind me, Morales called out, “Alex, wait for backup, let us clear the room first!” but I couldn't stop. The phantom scent of Clara’s lavender shampoo still lingered in the upper hallway, mixing with the sickeningly sweet smell of funeral wreaths drifting up from below.
I reached the master bedroom door. It was pushed open about six inches, the brass doorknob slightly askew—the unmistakable sign of a forced entry. Splintered wood surrounded the latch plate on the frame, tiny pale chips of oak scattered across the dark hardwood floor.
I pushed the door open fully and stepped inside.
The room was undisturbed in some ways, yet chaotic in others. The bed was made, the vanity mirror reflected the pale evening light filtering through the lace curtains, but Clara’s jewelry box on the dresser lay wide open, its velvet contents spilled across the mahogany surface. A framed photograph of our wedding day on the nightstand had been knocked facedown.
I walked over to the nightstand and picked up the photograph. The glass was cracked straight across our smiling faces.
“Alex.”
Morales appeared in the doorway, his flashlight sweeping across the room before resting on me. Behind him, Jenkins kept watch down the hall.
“You shouldn’t touch anything,” Morales said gently, stepping into the room. “If there’s an ongoing investigation, this is a crime scene.”
“Look at the doorframe, Morales,” I said, pointing at the splintered wood near the latch. “My brother told everyone Clara suffered a peaceful cardiac arrest in her sleep. Does that look peaceful to you? Does a woman dying naturally in her bed require someone to kick her door off the hinges?”
Morales knelt by the door, shining his flashlight beam onto the splintered wood. He ran a gloved finger along the fresh fracture lines. “You’re right. This was forced from the outside. A shoulder strike or a heavy kick.”
“And according to Lily, Derek was in here,” I continued, my voice tightening as rage began to replace shock. “He cornered her. He took her phone and hid it under my father’s wheelchair downstairs. Why? Why would my own brother and mother steal my dying wife’s phone and lock my daughter in a room?”
Before Morales could answer, a loud commotion echoed from downstairs.
“I demand you let me pass!” Beatrice’s shrill voice cut through the house. “You have no right to detain us in our own home! This is an outrage!”
“Ma’am, step back behind the line,” Jenkins’s voice boomed from the foyer. “Nobody leaves the property until the lead detective arrives.”
Morales stood up, his expression grim. He pulled out his radio and spoke into it quietly, requesting crime scene technicians and a detective unit from the county seat. Then he turned back to me. “Alex, we need to go back downstairs. I can’t let you stay in here alone. But leave the phone with me.”
I handed Clara’s rose-gold phone to Morales, watching as he slipped it into an evidence bag. But as I turned to follow him out of the room, my heel caught on the edge of the heavy wool rug beside the bed. The rug had been bunched up slightly, as if something heavy had been dragged across it in a hurry.
I knelt down and pushed the corner aside.
Half-hidden beneath the baseboard heating vent was a small, crumpled piece of lined notebook paper. I picked it up and unfolded it.
Written in Clara’s familiar, elegant handwriting were frantic, broken words:
They know about the account. If Alex doesn’t come back tonight, I’m going to the bank. Derek is threatening—
The note ended abruptly in a jagged, trailing stroke of ink, as if the pen had been jerked violently from her hand.
I folded the paper quickly and slipped it into the pocket of my trousers before Morales turned back around to look at me. My heart hammered against my ribs with terrifying velocity. An account? What account? What did Derek have to do with Clara’s finances?
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As we walked back down the stairs, the living room downstairs had transformed into a staging ground for an official investigation. Teresa was weeping loudly on the sofa, surrounded by sympathetic church members, while Derek paced near the kitchen entrance, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, refusing to make eye contact with anyone.
And right there in the middle of the room sat Clara’s mahogany casket, closed and silent, hiding whatever terrifying truth my family had fought so desperately to bury before I walked through the front door.
