Chapter 8

The sirens swelled through the river fog, sharp and echoing off the old boathouse’s wooden walls. Caelum’s fingers wrapped firmly around my wrist, not hard enough to hurt, but urgent — a silent warning to run. We slipped out the half‑open door, kept our heads low, and hurried along the muddy dock toward the bend where our unmarked car waited.

Behind us, floodlights suddenly flared to life, cutting through the mist. Two uniformed officers stepped onto the dock. “Stop! Stay right there!”

My heart hammered. “Did Diana call them?” I breathed.

“Not yet certain,” Caelum muttered, pulling me behind a thick stand of riverside willows. “They might only be responding to a routine disturbance call — or it could be bait.” We crouched in damp grass, watching as the officers peered into the boathouse, then radioed something back to their unit. After three tense minutes, they turned and walked away, no search party fanning out to hunt us.

Once their footsteps faded, we crept back toward the path. “Rowan must’ve triggered a panic alert when Diana’s people spotted him preparing to meet us,” I said quietly. “He didn’t get to wait for us.”

“Or someone else reported the location to draw police here so we’d leave without looking for the key,” Caelum replied. He glanced back toward the boathouse’s foundation. “The note said behind a loose brick near the dock. We should grab it before we head back.”

We circled carefully around the edge of the shoreline. Sure enough, near the lowest wooden piling, one grey brick jutted slightly out of the damp stonework. Caelum pried it free with his fingertips. Inside the hollow space rested a small brass key wrapped in a scrap of notebook paper. The scrap had only two words: Beware Hale.

I froze. My throat went tight. “Ms. Hale? Our most trusted ally?”

Caelum stared at the words, his face hardening with shock. “For years she’s been my most reliable assistant. She helped arrange our marriage paperwork, pulled old records… I never suspected her.” He slipped the key and scrap of paper into his inner jacket pocket. “But a single hand‑written note isn’t proof. It could be a lie planted to make us distrust the only person with access to sealed files.”

On the quiet drive back to the penthouse, neither of us spoke much. My mind kept replaying small moments: how quickly Ms. Hale had located background information on me, how she’d known exactly when Diana planned her first visit, how she’d mentioned that retired traffic officer three months ago. Had those been helpful gestures… or ways to steer our investigation?

Back inside, we locked all the balcony doors and drew the heavy curtains. Caelum poured two mugs of hot tea, handing one to me. His knuckles were still tense. “If there’s truth to that warning, we can’t ask her to help us access safety‑deposit box 417 tomorrow. Not openly.”

“Can we go ourselves?” I asked.

“Boxes registered under a Vance‑linked name require authorized identification — and Diana’s people monitor every Vance‑related bank visit.” He paused, thinking hard. “Unless we go under separate, casual aliases, during the mid‑morning rush when the lobby is crowded.”

Before we could plan further, my phone lit up with another anonymous text: Rowan hid more than the key. He left a voice memo on your penthouse’s secondary guest tablet. Don’t let Hale know you listen to it.

We exchanged startled looks. Caelum crossed quickly to the seldom‑used guest suite, where a slim tablet sat charging on a side table. He unlocked it with a spare passcode only he knew, opened the voice‑notes folder — and there it was, an audio file timestamped late the previous night.

He pressed play. Rowan’s shaky voice filled the quiet room:

“That night by the highway… Mom wasn’t the only one there. There was another person — someone my father used to work closely with. They tampered with my uncle’s car brakes first. Mom distracted him by calling him on the phone while he drove. I watched from the treeline. I was too scared to step forward. Later, someone paid the police to mark it an accident. And… Ms. Hale was the one delivering those payments. I saw her slip an envelope to the lead investigator outside the station.”

The recording cut off abruptly.

I sat down slowly on the edge of the guest bed, my head spinning. All those years of calm, precise support — had Ms. Hale been covering up a murder? But why? What loyalty tied her to Diana?

Caelum stood silent by the tablet, his expression torn between grief and disbelief. “My father once helped Hale through a terrible family crisis. I thought she was loyal to him.” He ran a hand over his jaw. “If she switched sides… every piece of information she’s given us could have been manipulated.”

Without warning, the main penthouse door clicked open. We both jumped. Footsteps moved across the entryway — steady, familiar footsteps. Ms. Hale had returned, earlier than expected.

Caelum quickly locked the tablet screen, gestured for me to stay quiet in the guest room, and stepped out into the hallway. I pressed my ear against the door, heart pounding.

“Sir,” Ms. Hale said in her usual even tone. “I received word there was a minor police call near the old riverside boathouse earlier this evening. I wanted to check whether you or Zara were involved.”

Caelum kept his voice neutral. “We remained here all evening. Just reviewing board review materials.”

“Very well.” There was a short pause. “Also — the retired traffic officer I mentioned earlier just sent a message. He’s willing to meet tomorrow… but only if you come alone.”

From behind the guest‑room door, I held my breath. Was this a genuine lead? Or a trap set by the woman we’d just learned might have paid to bury the truth about Caelum’s father? And what would we find inside safety‑deposit box 417 if we dared try to open it?