Dad, shouldn't we keep looking for more clues? What if there's something else Thomas hid in the house? Good thinking, Ethan agreed. We followed the main trail to the river cache, but the map shows other symbols we haven't explored yet. They returned to the floor plan Thomas had hidden in the new post.
Several locations remained unmarked, including a symbol in what appeared to be the mansion cellar, a space they hadn't yet explored. The cellar entrance was located off the kitchen, a heavy oak door leading to stone steps that descended into darkness. The air below was cool and damp, smelling of earth and aged stone. When Ethan switched on his flashlight, the beam revealed a cavernous space with arched ceiling supports and wine racks that had once held hundreds of bottles. This place is huge, Noah whispered, his voice echoing slightly.
Bigger than I expected. Victorian houses often had extensive sellers for food storage and wine, Ethan explained, examining the craftsmanship of the stone walls. Look at these arches, all hand cut and fitted without mortar. The kind of work nobody does anymore. Following the map, they made their way to the seller's far corner, where a section of wall bore the faint outline of the compass rose symbol from their key.
Unlike other hiding places, this one showed signs of recent disturbance. The surrounding dust had been disturbed, and fresh scratches marred the ancient stonework. "Someone's been here," Ethan said grimly. "Recently. " "Reed? " Noah suggested. "Probably.
Let's see if he found anything. " When Ethan pressed the symbol, a section of wall swung inward with surprising ease, revealing a small chamber beyond. Inside, empty shelves lined the walls, and a metal lock box lay open on the floor, its contents gone. "We're too late," Ethan sighed. Reed must have found whatever Thomas hid here. "Maybe not everything," Noah countered, pointing to a small gap between two shelves.
"Look there! Something's wedged in the crack. " Ethan knelt and carefully extracted a small object from the narrow space. A miniature realtoreal tape, the kind used in dictation machines decades ago. A paper label bore Thomas's distinctive handwriting. Insurance May 1st, 1977.
Good eye, buddy, Ethan praised, examining the tape. This might be exactly what we need. Can we play it? Noah asked. Not without the right equipment, but I bet Sheriff Davis might know where to find an old tape player.
They secured the cellar chamber and hurried back upstairs, the tape carefully wrapped in a handkerchief. As they reached the main floor, the sound of tires on gravel alerted them to another visitor. Through the window, they saw not Reed's sleek sedan, but a contractor's truck with Parker County inspections emlazed on the door. "The inspector? " Noah gasped. I thought Sheriff Davis said tomorrow.
Reed must have pulled more strings, Ethan realized. Quick, hide the documents and tape. I'll handle this. Jim Parker proved to be a thin, balding man with permanent frown lines and a clipboard held like a shield. His eyes darted around the entry hall with the practiced assessment of someone looking for violations, not beauty.