Chapter 5 - The Locked Box
Chloe sat back on her heels in the freezing attic dust, her heart pounding against her ribs like a trapped bird. The small steel box felt freezing beneath her fingertips, its black matte finish catching the silver moonlight spilling through the arched window. Susan’s note was a direct provocation, a breadcrumb left behind by a woman who knew exactly how to light a fuse.
The day she found out.
What did that mean? Found out about what? The affair? The business troubles? The debts Arthur had claimed Eleanor had? Chloe closed her eyes, trying to cast her mind back to the months leading up to her mother’s death. The timeline was a blur of high school exams, Eleanor's sudden withdrawals into her private studio, and the constant, suffocating presence of Susan lurking in the hallways with clipboards and administrative files.
Then, a specific memory surfaced like an anchor breaking water.
It was October fourteenth, two years ago. Eleanor had locked herself in the master bathroom for hours. When she finally emerged, her face was pale, her eyes rimmed with red, but she hadn’t been crying. She had looked hollowed out, as though the foundation beneath her feet had turned to dust. That evening, Eleanor had hugged Chloe in the kitchen, whispering, “No matter what happens, Chloe, remember who you are. Don't let anyone rewrite our story.”
Chloe entered the numbers into the four-digit keypad: 1 - 0 - 1 - 4.
A soft electronic click echoed in the quiet attic. The latch popped open.
Chloe hesitated, her breath pluming in the cold air. Downstairs, she could hear the faint, muffled sounds of her father shouting into his phone—likely screaming at the private security company or his personal lawyers. She didn't have much time.
She lifted the steel lid.
Inside lay three small items: a micro-cassette tape, a flash drive shaped like a brass house key, and a folded medical report bearing the insignia of the St. Jude Regional Hospital.
Chloe unfolded the medical paperwork first, angling the paper toward the moonlight. Her eyes scanned the dense technical jargon, past the patient name—Eleanor Vance—down to the clinical diagnosis. Her breath hitched in her throat.
It wasn't a psychiatric evaluation. There was no mention of paranoia, dementia, or mental breakdown.
It was a comprehensive toxicology panel. The lab results showed trace amounts of thallium sulfate—a colorless, odorless chemical compound historically used in rodenticides—accumulating in Eleanor’s blood over an eighteen-month period. Below the lab results was a handwritten doctor's note that had never been filed into official records: Patient advised to leave domestic environment immediately. Law enforcement notification recommended.
Eleanor hadn't been losing her mind. Someone had been methodically poisoning her inside her own home.
A floorboard creaked behind her.
Chloe froze, her blood turning to liquid ice. Slowly, she turned her head toward the attic stairs. Standing in the doorway, half-concealed by the deep shadows, was not her father.
May you like
It was Susan, holding a heavy tire iron loosely at her side, her silk blouse stained with mud around the cuffs.
""Clever girl,"" Susan whispered, stepping out of the dark. ""You always were Eleanor's daughter.""
