Chapter 5 - The Vault of Regret
Brennan reached the master bedroom door and hammered his fist against the wood.
“Sarah! Open the door, it’s me! Lock the deadbolt behind me!”
The latch turned quickly, and the heavy door opened just wide enough for him to slip in.
Sarah looked completely unravelled, her eyes wide, wild, and dark with paranoia.
She was holding Brennan’s old hunting rifle, her finger resting near the trigger guard.
She didn’t know how to shoot, but fear had made her dangerous and unpredictable.
“Put the gun down, Sarah,” Brennan said softly, stepping between her and the crib.
“Did you see him? Is he outside?” she gasped, her voice cracked with hysteria.
“He’s on the property. The police are combing the outer perimeter right now.”
“We need to leave, Brennan! We have to pack June’s things and go to a hotel in town!”
“He wants us out in the open, Sarah. The house is brick and iron; it’s secure.”
“He pushed our daughter down the stairs!” she screamed, her voice cracking with fury.
“He tried to break her neck, Brennan! How can you call this place secure?!”
June stirred in her crib at the shouting, letting out a small, frightened wail.
Sarah dropped the rifle onto the mattress and scooped the baby into her arms again.
She turned her back to Brennan, rocking herself against the corner wall.
“This is Clara’s house,” Sarah sobbed softly into June’s hair.
“Her ghost is in the walls, Brennan. And her son is going to kill us in it.”
Brennan couldn’t argue with her; the guilt was choking the breath from his chest.
He walked down the long carpeted corridor toward the basement stairs.
Elliot had mentioned the basement safe during the phone call.
That safe hadn't been opened since Clara’s estate had been settled two years ago.
It was a heavy, fireproof iron box bolted to the foundation behind the wine cellar.
Only Brennan and Clara had possessed the six-digit combination.
Elliot shouldn’t have known it existed, let alone what was inside.
Brennan descended the narrow wooden steps into the cold, damp dark of the cellar.
The smell of aged wood, dust, and damp concrete filled his nose.
He switched on the bare overhead bulb, casting long, swinging shadows across the room.
He moved past the dusty racks of vintage merlot Clara had collected before her illness.
In the far corner, behind a stack of empty wooden fruit crates, the iron safe sat.
Its heavy steel door was standing slightly ajar.
Brennan stopped dead in his tracks, his breath hitching in his chest.
The lock hadn’t been drilled or forced with a crowbar.
The combination had been dialed correctly; the heavy brass dial rested on zero.
Brennan pulled the heavy door open, its hinges squeaking in the quiet subterranean chill.
The safe was empty of the cash and bearer bonds Brennan kept for emergencies.
Over fifty thousand dollars in unmarked currency had vanished completely.
Clara’s diamond jewelry—heirlooms meant for June when she grew up—was gone.
Yet Elliot hadn't taken everything.
At the very back of the iron shelf lay a thick, faded manila envelope.
The string clasp had been untied and left trailing over the shelf edge.
Inside were medical records from Saint Jude’s Memorial Hospital, dated four years ago.
Brennan pulled the papers out with trembling fingers, knowing instantly what they were.
They were not Clara’s cancer reports.
They were Elliot’s psychiatric evaluation reports from when he was twelve years old.
Brennan had buried them down here, hiding them even from Clara before she died.
On the front page, stamped in bold red ink: SEVERE SOCIOPATHIC TENDENCIES.
Beneath the diagnosis was the handwritten note from Clara’s private physician:
“The mother exhibits extreme enabling behavior, refusing residential intervention.”
“Patient demonstrates calculated malice toward domestic animals and smaller peers.”
“Recommend permanent clinical institutionalization before age fourteen.”
Clara had stolen the files from the clinic’s office to protect her boy from a ward.
She had begged Brennan to lock them away where no court could ever find them.
She had threatened to leave him if he ever tried to commit her precious son.
And Brennan, weak with love for a dying woman, had hidden the truth in the dark.
He had let a monster grow up under his roof to satisfy the delusions of a dying wife.
Now, tucked inside the envelope beside the doctor's report, was a new piece of paper.
It was a fresh receipt from a local hardware store down by the industrial docks.
Dated yesterday afternoon at 4:15 PM.
Two five-gallon cans of kerosene.
Three industrial-grade smoke detectors.
One heavy steel padlock.
Brennan’s vision blurred as the realization struck his gut like a lead weight.
Elliot hadn’t pushed the cradle down the stairs just to hurt the baby.
The push was a distraction to bring Brennan home before the banks closed.
The push was meant to put them all in the house at the same time.
Elliot wasn’t hiding in the woods to escape the reform school.
He had locked the perimeter because he was coming back to burn Oakridge Manor to the ground.
And he had the keys to every single deadbolt in the foundation.
May you like
A heavy metallic click echoed from the top of the basement stairs.
The cellar door slammed shut with a concussive shock that blew out the overhead bulb.
