I started with the paper we had found in the floorboard, dabbing along the edge.
Nothing happened.
My stomach twisted asIstarted on the beautiful calligraphy.Ihad almost made it to the end of the passage, whenJackgrabbed my wrist.
“Look.”
He pointed to the line, where the letterXin the word “execution” had a distinct green number one blooming on the page.
“Holy shit,”Iwhispered. “Ididn’t think it would actually work.”
Jack let out a loud crack of laughter as he grabbed a cotton pad from the stack and went to work on the next letter. “You’rea fucking genius,Roar.”
By the time we made it through all three manuscript pages, we had a running tally of five numbers and one letter: three from the witch story, two from the long-lost fisherman story, and one letterLfrom the love letter we found in the mirror.
“This is where my expertise ends,”Isaid asIlooked at the sets of numbersJackhad meticulously written down. “I’mnot good at math.”
“Yeah, me neither,” he muttered as he hunched over the table.Hisgaze flicked from the pages to the key.
“And what if we don’t have the numbers in order?Therewould be like . . . millions of combinations.”
Jack scratched at the scruff beginning to fill in on his jaw. “Whatif it’s a safety deposit box?”
“What do you mean?”
“The key isn’t the right size to go to a door lock or a car.It’stoo small for that.It’sthe size for a lock on a filing cabinet, but there wasn’t one in the house.”Hepicked up the invisible ink pen and showed me the engraving. “ShacklefordBanksandTrust.It’snot a bank name.It’sa banknearShacklefordBanks.”
“Seems like a stretch.”
“Babe, don’t take this the wrong way, but we just uncovered a coded message in pages we found hidden in your aunt’s house.Ithink we’re beyond the pale of ‘normal’ by now.”
“You have a point.”
Jack pinched the bridge of his nose as he racked his brain. “There’sa bank inBeaufortthat’s right across the street from the ferry that takes tourists out toShacklefordBanks.”Heused the pen to point at the set of three numbers from the witch story. “Hearme out.Whatif that’s the bank branch number.”Hemoved the tip to the set of two numbers from the fisherman story. “That’sthe safety deposit box number.”
“Then what’s the letterLfor?”
Jack ran his hand over his hair. “Somebanks use letters to differentiate between small, medium, and large boxes.Myfolks used to have a box where they kept our birth certificates and passports and shit.Theirshad aSin the number for small.”
“So.”Ipicked up the key. “Wego to this bank that my aunt hasn’t visited in what—twenty-something years?Showthem this key and tell them that we got the box number from invisible ink hidden on manuscript pages in her house.Ohyeah.Andthe house just burned to the ground.Bestcase scenario—they think we’re crazy and tell us to leave.Worstcase scenario—we get arrested and run out of town by an angry mob.”
Jack laughed. “Itcan’t hurt to try.Butmaybe we should keep the invisible ink and treasure hunt stuff to ourselves.Wecan just say you’re here on behalf of your great-aunt's estate and have the key to the box.”
* * *
I was goingto throw up.Thebank smelled too clean.Itwas too quiet.Ilooked too unkempt, even after showering and making myself look presentable.Certainly, the teller was going to thinkIwas crazy.
Jack’s hand on my back was reassuring.Ihad convinced him to change into aCedarIslandFireDepartmentt-shirt in hopes that his career as a do-good boy scout would earn us some brownie points.
It probably wouldn’t.
The key in my hand was covered in sweat asIapproached the counter.
“Good morning, ma’am,” the jovial old man said as he adjusted the glasses perched on the tip of his nose. “WhatcanIdo for you today?”
“I, um,I’mhere on behalf of my great-aunt’s estate,”Istammered. “Wewere cleaning out her house and found her safety deposit box key and wanted to make sure we . . . closed it out with the rest of her affairs.”
The half-truth flowed like mud, but the teller didn’t seem fazed. “What’sthe box number, honey?”
