“I know,” Millie said, her gut aching. She looked at the metal box on the table. “We have three ways to open this thing. I could try every possible combination or invent some sort of device to open it, or we can just break in.”
Scott reached into his back pocket for a screwdriver. “I grabbed this from the bunkhouse. I say we go for brute strength.”
“Agreed,” Millie said. “I don’t really care about saving the metal box, but I’m dying to know what’s inside it.” The way things were going for them, it would probably just be Clay’s diaries recounting his good old days.
Brigid wandered down the stairs and into the kitchen, yawning. Today she wore jeans and a cream-colored sweater that made her hair look even redder than usual. “Doesn’t anybody sleep in around here?” she mumbled, wandering over to the coffeepot to pour herself a deep mug.
“Sometimes,” Millie answered. “Aunt Mae is still asleep.”
Brigid yawned again and looked at the metal box. “What’s that?”
“We found it at Clay Baker’s cabin.” Scott rummaged in the junk drawer and drew out a hammer. “Everybody step back.” Nobody moved. Shrugging, he leaned over, shoved the screwdriver near the lock, and started pounding.
Millie finished her Pop-Tart while Brigid drank her coffee with a happy hum.
The box sprang open. They rushed forward to look inside.
“Huh.” Scott pulled out three vials of liquid. “What do you want to bet?”
“GHB,” Brigid said, taking the vials. “I’ll run these to the post office and send them to DC.”
“It should probably go to the local police,” Scott said. “It’s their crime.”
“Oh fine,” Brigid said, shaking her head. “They’ll probably just use our lab anyway.”
Scott lifted an old and faded piece of paper off out of the way. “Oh,” he said, whistling.
Millie looked at VCR tape upon tape lined up neatly inside the box. Labels on each held names and dates going back nearly five years. Alarm filled her chest.
Scott picked up a tape and looked at it. “Dora, from three years ago.”
Millie nodded. “Those are from an old-fashioned video recorder.”
“A handheld one?” Scott asked.
How had Clay turned into such a monster? Millie coughed. “They used tapes instead of digital.”
“Smart,” Brigid muttered. “There’s too much of a footprint with digital. These old tapes are the way to go if you want to hide something.”
“We are definitely not going to like this,” Scott muttered. “Do you have anything that’ll play these?”
Millie didn’t want to view the content on those tapes. “Yes. I have tons of old video recorders in my workshop,” she said. “I used to take them apart and create everything from kaleidoscopes to small detonators. I’ll be right back.” She walked through the kitchen to the garage and her workshop at the far end, rummaging through boxes until she found what she needed. She returned to discover Brigid making more coffee and Scott lining the tapes up according to date.
She hesitated.
Scott looked up, his gaze intense. “Your name isn’t on any of these.”
Relief flowed through her and the breath that she hadn’t realized she was holding whooshed out of her lungs. “That makes sense,” she murmured. “Clay and I broke up after high school. All of these tapes date to his college days.” Yet the latest one was dated only four weeks ago. So it appeared Clayhaddrugged her the other night. But who had killed him?
“Here you go,” Scott said, handing her the tape labeled with Dora’s name. “I also have tapes for Wilma and Bobbi, the victim Ian spoke with.”
Millie gagged, then shut down her emotions to maneuver Dora’s tape into the out-of-date video recorder. She flipped open the screen.
Brigid remained across the room, watching her.
A woman came onto the screen, stumbling across what looked like an apartment. Beer cans covered nearly every surface, and a flag for the college that Clay had attended hung over a leather sofa.
The scene moved and Clay smiled into the camera, looking about eight years younger than the last time she’d seen him. He winked. “Dora decided to visit,” he murmured, then laughed, turning to film a woman who stared blankly around. Her eyes were hollow and her movements jerky. She fell onto the leather sofa, tilting to the side, obviously drugged.
