Chapter 22 - Beneath the Concrete Slab
The detached two-car garage smelled of damp earth, motor oil, and years of neglected storage. Outside, the sky had turned a bruised purple as twilight settled over the quiet suburban neighborhood. Daniel locked the side door behind them, carrying a heavy steel pry bar and a claw hammer from his workbench. Lily stood beside him, clutching a high-powered flashlight.
He knew the exact spot she meant. Three years ago, shortly before Rachel died in that horrific crash on Interstate 80, she had spent an entire weekend rearranging the back corner of the garage. At the time, she claimed she had accidentally knocked over a five-gallon bucket of masonry sealant, creating a thick, uneven square of gray compound near the floor drain. Daniel had never thought twice about it.
"Point the beam right here," Daniel muttered, dropping to his knees.
Lily directed the flashlight beam onto the weathered patch. Daniel wedged the chisel end of the pry bar into the edge where the sealant met the original concrete foundation. With a sharp grunt, he hammered the bar inward. The gray compound cracked with a brittle sound. It wasn't solid concrete at all—it was a thin skim-coat of quick-set plaster poured over a hollow recess.
Daniel ripped away chunks of brittle cement, his breathing ragged. Beneath the false layer lay a sheet of rusted sheet metal. He pried it back with his bare hands, tearing his skin, indifferent to the pain.
Nestled inside a recessed cavity in the dirt foundation sat a heavy, fireproof steel lockbox, coated in plastic wrap to keep out moisture. Daniel lifted the heavy box out and set it onto the garage floor.
His hands shook as he took the tarnished silver key from Lily’s fingers. The key slipped into the lock with a dull click. Daniel turned it. The mechanism gave way smoothly.
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He lifted the lid. Sitting on top of a stack of bank ledgers and cassette tapes was a handwritten letter addressed to him in Rachel’s sharp, hurried cursive:
*If you are reading this, Daniel, Harold has already carried out Arthur Vance’s orders. Do not trust anyone on this street.*
