Chapter 5 - the lock in the wine cellar
By 9:00 PM, Evelyn had fled the estate in her luxury sedan, leaving behind a thick cloud of unanswered questions and heavy tension.
The storm outside had intensified, thunder rolling across the dark hills surrounding Ashford Manor. Rain lashed against the high glass windows of the east wing.
Damon walked down the narrow stone stairs leading to the subterranean levels beneath the estate. He wore a dark casual sweater, holding a heavy industrial flashlight in his left hand and a pair of heavy iron bolt-cutters in his right.
Behind him, insisting on coming along despite the chill, walked Naomi. She carried a warm lantern, her eyes scanning the dark, damp brick arches of the ancient cellar.
"You don't have to be down here, Naomi," Damon said softly without turning around.
"Zuri told me the lady showed her the blue door, Mr. Ashford," Naomi replied, her voice echoing in the narrow space. "If there is something down here that concerns my daughter... I need to know."
They reached the end of the long brick corridor. Standing before them was the massive reinforced steel gate—painted a faded, chipped blue—that led into the deep storage vaults beneath the foundation. A heavy iron chain held the handles shut, secured by a rusted padlock that had been welded together four years ago.
Damon set the bolt-cutters against the welded latch. He applied his broad, powerful strength, his muscles straining against the steel until—
SNAP.
The rusted lock shattered into two pieces, falling onto the cold stone floor with a sharp metallic clatter.
Damon pushed the heavy blue door open. The iron hinges groaned loudly, releasing a blast of cold, stale air that smelled of old paper, damp stone, and dried lavender.
Damon shone his flashlight beam into the dark vault.
The room was large, lined with old wooden wine racks and heavy metal filing cabinets. In the center of the room sat a single wooden rocking chair, and beside it on a small table rested a vintage, hand-cranked music box with an open lid.
May you like
Naomi gasped softly, stepping close behind Damon as the flashlight beam illuminated the wall behind the rocking chair.
Covered in dust, written in thick white chalk across the dark brick wall, were dozens of music notes—the exact lullaby that had hummed through the study walls earlier that afternoon.
