Chapter 35 - The Shadow of Berlin
The cellar was freezing. The halogen work lights Mark set up threw harsh, jagged shadows against the fieldstone walls Donald Sterling had reinforced decades ago. The massive iron safe stood open, its empty shelves still smelling of ozone and desiccated paper.
Mark wedged the flat edge of the steel crowbar beneath the rim of the circular iron plate recessed into the concrete floor. With a grunt of exertion, the metal groaned, rusted bolts shearing with a sharp crack that echoed like gunshots through the foundation.
"Easy," I warned, holding the heavy flashlight steady.
Julianne stood at the base of the wooden stairs, her arms crossed over her chest, watching us with cold detachment. "You think you’re uncovering a fortune, Clara. What you’re opening is a grave."
"You came here under the guise of saving this farm from my father's creditors," I replied, turning to glare at her. "You let me believe you were family who actually gave a damn about what they did to me. But you were just hunting for whatever Donald buried under this floor."
"I did save you," Julianne countered coldly. "Your father would have sold this land to strip-mall developers within forty-eight hours of your grandfather's funeral. He didn't care about the history, only the dollar signs. But you... you proved you had Donald’s grit when you took that slap at your wedding and refused to surrender your dignity. That’s why I came. To see if Donald’s blood was truly in you. Or if you were weak like your sister."
The iron plate finally yielded with a hollow clang, sliding aside to reveal not stagnant drainage water, but a water-tight cylinder of polished naval bronze set into solid bedrock. Embossed across the heavy lid was the crown and fouled anchor of the British Admiralty, alongside a serial number stamped in deep cold-rolled steel.
Mark shone his light directly into the recess. "There's no padlock. It's an internal triple-tumbler lock."
"And the third key," I whispered, remembering the caller's words.
"Donald wore it around his neck for thirty years," Julianne said quietly from the stairs. "He told everyone it was a religious medal given to him by an Italian nun during the relief efforts after the war. But it wasn't St. Christopher. It was a key coded to an encrypted diplomatic transport manifest from 1962."
I froze. I remembered that medal. When Donald was dying in the hospice wing, while my father was rummaging through his closet searching for Rolexes and deed transfers, Donald had reached out with trembling, paper-thin fingers and pressed a tarnished bronze disc into my palm.
*‘Keep it close, little girl,’* Donald had wheezed into my ear. *‘When the wolves come, this will buy your silence or your freedom.’*
I had tucked it into my jewelry box, wearing it on a thin silver chain hidden beneath my wedding gown on the day my life shattered. It was sitting upstairs right now in my dresser drawer.
"You have it, don't you?" Julianne whispered, taking a step down the stairs, her eyes gleaming with an obsessive hunger that made my stomach churn. "Clara. Give it to me. The people watching the ridge aren't collectors. They aren't court bailiffs. They are men who erase problems."
May you like
Suddenly, the house overhead shuddered.
The heavy front door upstairs crashed open against the wall with violent force, followed by the heavy, disciplined footsteps of tactical boots crossing the hardwood of the living room.
