Chapter 3 - The Key Behind the ClockThe brass key from Victoria’s bridal suite opened a safety deposit box.
That discovery came twelve hours later.
Finding which box took considerably longer.
The paper tag marked 417 had been old enough that the hotel police initially assumed the number referred to a room, locker, or address.
Genevieve disagreed.
Her father never labeled anything without a system.
Even his kitchen spices had tiny handwritten dates beneath the jars.
Numbers meant something.
Always.
By late afternoon, Genevieve was standing inside her father’s old shop for the first time in almost three years.
Hart & Son Horology had been closed since Daniel’s death.
She still owned the building.
She simply couldn’t bring herself to sell it.
Dust floated through afternoon light.
Clocks covered the walls.
Hundreds of them.
Silent now.
The smell hit her hardest.
Machine oil.
Wood.
Metal.
Her childhood.
Beck stood behind her.
“You okay?”
“No.”
A beat.
Then she added, “But we’re here.”
Detective Ortiz had objected to Beck accompanying her.
Genevieve had surprised herself by insisting.
Maybe because he was part of this.
Maybe because she didn’t want to discover whatever waited here alone.
She moved behind the repair counter.
Everything remained where Daniel left it.
Magnifying lenses.
Tweezers.
Tiny screwdrivers.
A chipped coffee mug reading WORLD’S OKAYEST DAD.
Genevieve touched it.
Her throat tightened.
Beck pretended not to notice.
“Where would he hide something?”
“Somewhere obvious.”
“That seems counterintuitive.”
“You didn’t know my father.”
She looked around.
“He hated elaborate hiding places. Said people search drawers before they search what they look at every day.”
Her eyes traveled across the wall clocks.
Then stopped.
One clock had never worked.
A large oak regulator from the 1920s.
Daniel kept it above his bench.
Genevieve had asked dozens of times why he never repaired it.
He always gave the same answer.
It isn’t mine to fix.
She pulled over a stool.
Beck steadied it while she climbed.
The clock casing opened with a soft click.
Inside, behind the pendulum housing, her fingers touched paper.
Genevieve froze.
“What?” Beck asked.
She pulled out an envelope.
Her name was written across it.
GENEVIEVE.
Her knees nearly gave out.
She climbed down.
For several seconds she couldn’t open it.
Beck stood quietly.
No pressure.
That helped.
Finally, she tore the seal.
Inside was a bank statement.
An account opened eighteen years earlier.
Balance at opening:
$2,000,000.
Genevieve laughed once.
A shocked, hollow sound.
“My father lived in the same two-bedroom apartment for thirty years.”
Beck examined the statement.
“The account is in trust.”
“For whom?”
He pointed.
Beneficiary name:
Elias Rowan.
Genevieve frowned.
“Who is that?”
“I don’t know.”
The account had received one deposit.
Two million dollars from Vale Development Holdings.
Three days before Henry Vale died.
Genevieve felt sick.
“Was my father being paid?”
“Maybe.”
“To do what?”
Beck didn’t answer.
The brass key fit a second compartment inside the regulator clock.
Behind it was another envelope.
This one contained photocopies of hospital records.
Henry Vale.
Admitted 2:51 a.m.
Chest pain.
Difficulty breathing.
Attending physician: Dr. Nathan Rowan.
Genevieve looked at the bank statement.
Elias Rowan.
Nathan Rowan.
“Related?” she asked.
“Probably.”
Beck took out his phone.
A quick search answered it.
Dr. Nathan Rowan had died ten years earlier.
His son was Elias Rowan.
Current occupation:
Chief financial officer of Vale International.
Genevieve stared at Beck.
“You know him.”
“I’ve known Elias my whole life.”
“How well?”
“He practically grew up with us.”
A cold sensation moved down Genevieve’s spine.
“So the beneficiary of a secret two-million-dollar account is currently your CFO.”
“Yes.”
“And his father treated your grandfather the night he died.”
“Yes.”
“And nobody thought this mattered?”
“I didn’t know.”
Genevieve looked at him.
“You keep saying that.”
Beck’s expression hardened.
“You think I’m involved?”
“I don’t know what I think.”
“That’s convenient.”
“So is being born into a family where everyone apparently lies.”
He stepped back.
The words landed harder than she intended.
Genevieve exhaled.
“Sorry.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No.”
He almost smiled.
Almost.
Then his phone rang.
Elias Rowan.
Both of them stared at the screen.
Genevieve whispered, “That’s not creepy at all.”
Beck answered.
“Elias.”
A pause.
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“No, I’m at the office.”
Genevieve raised an eyebrow.
Beck ignored her.
“I’ll call you later.”
He hung up.
“What did he want?”
“To know where I was.”
“That seems normal.”
“He’s never asked where I am in fifteen years.”
Genevieve looked at the papers.
“Then maybe he knows we found something.”
They photographed everything and returned the originals.
As Genevieve closed the clock, something fell.
A photograph.
Small.
Polaroid.
It fluttered onto the workbench.
Genevieve picked it up.
Her father stood outside the Vale estate.
Younger.
Beside him was Henry Vale.
Dr. Nathan Rowan.
And a woman.
Beautiful.
Dark-haired.
Holding a baby.
Genevieve turned it over.
Daniel’s handwriting.
April 17.
Protect the boy.
Her pulse stopped.
“Beck.”
He took the photograph.
His expression emptied.
“That woman…”
“You know her?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
He stared at the image.
“My mother.”
Genevieve looked at the baby.
Then at Beck.
“You?”
“No.”
The answer came too quickly.
Beck zoomed in on the photograph with his phone.
“My mother never wore her hair like that when I was born.”
“How would you know?”
“Family photos.”
His face had gone pale.
“And I was born in November.”
Genevieve checked the date again.
April 17.
The baby looked perhaps six months old.
Beck sat down slowly.
“My parents told me I was their first child.”
Genevieve didn’t know what to say.
Then a sound came from the back room.
Metal scraping.
Both froze.
Beck whispered, “Stay here.”
“Absolutely not.”
They moved together.
The back door stood open.
Genevieve was certain she had locked it.
A shadow disappeared through the alley.
Beck ran after it.
Genevieve followed.
The alley was empty.
Except for a black sedan speeding around the corner.
Beck memorized the plate.
Then Genevieve noticed smoke.
“Beck.”
Inside the shop, orange light flickered.
The back room was burning.
Someone had poured accelerant across Daniel’s files.
Genevieve grabbed an extinguisher.
Together they smothered the flames before they reached the walls.
Most records were destroyed.
One metal box survived.
Its lid warped from heat.
Inside were customer cards.
Thousands.
Genevieve searched V.
Vale.
Nothing.
Then Rowan.
One card.
Nathan Rowan.
Service note:
April 16.
Pocket watch conversion.
Special instruction: internal compartment added beneath movement.
Genevieve read it twice.
“A hidden compartment.”
“The missing watch,” Beck said.
She nodded.
“That’s why someone wants it.”
“What could fit inside?”
“Paper. A photograph. A key.”
“A recording?”
“Not eighteen years ago unless it was very small.”
Beck looked at the burned files.
“Someone knows we’re close.”
A siren sounded in the distance.
Genevieve picked up the Rowan repair card.
There was writing on the back.
One sentence.
If Henry dies, give the watch to Evelyn.
Genevieve stared.
Evelyn.
The woman who accused her.
The woman who claimed the watch had only sentimental value.
The woman who turned pale when the fragment appeared.
Beck read over her shoulder.
Neither spoke.
Then his phone buzzed.
A message from an unknown number.
One photograph.
Victoria.
Alive.
Hands bound.
Eyes terrified.
Beside her sat a clock.
Digital.
4:17.
Below the photograph:
STOP LOOKING INTO HENRY VALE OR SHE DIES.
Genevieve felt Beck stiffen beside her.
The threat had changed everything.
This was no longer about a wedding scandal.
Someone had Victoria.
Someone knew about the watch.
May you like
Someone knew about 4:17.
And somebody had just tried to burn Daniel Hart’s secrets to ash.
