When I checked Martha’s key ring and couldn’t find the attic key, I felt uneasy. Eventually I grabbed a screwdriver and pried the old lock loose.
Inside, the attic smelled of old paper and a faint metallic scent. In the far corner rested an antique oak chest with tarnished brass edges, secured with another heavy padlock. The following day, when I visited Martha and mentioned the trunk, her reaction startled me. The color drained from her face and she clutched the bed sheets, begging me not to open it.
But curiosity kept gnawing at me. That night I went back upstairs with a pair of bolt cutters.
