Chapter 5 - The Blue Trunk
The basement of the carriage house smelled of damp earth, motor oil, and decades of stagnant sawdust. The beam of my flashlight cut through cobwebs as Detective Miller’s partner, Officer Davis, followed closely behind me.
Behind the rusted cast-iron casing of the water meter, my fingers brushed against a strip of heavy duct tape. I pulled it free. A small, brass key fell into my palm.
"Found it," I muttered, my heart hammering against my ribs like a caged animal.
We climbed the narrow wooden stairs up to the second floor—the apartment where Bethany had lived during the year Sarah died. It was dusty, furnished with discarded living room sets from my parents' renovations. In the far corner of the bedroom closet, buried beneath stacks of old winter coats, was a heavy, military-style blue trunk secured by a steel padlock.
The brass key slipped into the lock. It turned with a heavy, satisfying *clunk*.
Officer Davis held her body camera steady while I lifted the lid.
Inside lay old photo albums, tax forms from the late nineties, and a velvet jewelry box. But resting directly on top was a black leather folio, its zipper half-open, as if it had been hastily shoved back inside in a panic.
I pulled out the folio and unzipped it.
Inside were four items:
First, a certified copy of Sarah’s life insurance policy—taken out just three weeks before her death, naming Bethany Vance as the secondary beneficiary if I were incapacitated.
Second, a police report from the night of November 14th—the night Sarah was killed. Attached to it was an internal affairs memo that had never been made public, noting that paint transfer from Sarah’s hit-and-run vehicle matched a midnight-blue BMW registered to Bethany Vance.
Third, a signed affidavit from a local mechanic stating that he had replaced the front bumper, headlight assembly, and radiator of Bethany’s vehicle in an off-the-books cash transaction on November 15th—paid for with a cashier's check drawn from Eleanor Vance’s personal account.
And finally, resting beneath the documents, was a 5x7 photograph.
It showed Sarah and Bethany standing outside a local coffee shop. The photo had been taken from across the street, clearly by a private investigator. Sarah looked furious, holding a manila folder in her hands. Across the front of the photo, written in red permanent marker in Bethany’s jagged, manic handwriting, were four words:
*SHE KNOWS TOO MUCH.*
I fell back against the wall, my knees giving out completely. The breath left my lungs in a violent heave.
Sarah wasn't killed by a stranger. Sarah wasn't an unlucky victim of a rainy night and a reckless driver.
Bethany killed her.
And Eleanor paid to cover the tracks.
"Jesus Christ," Officer Davis whispered behind me, reading over my shoulder. "David... this isn't just assault. This is premeditated vehicular homicide and conspiracy."
"Sarah found something," I choked out, tears finally breaking free, burning like acid as they tracked down my face. "Sarah must have discovered what Bethany was doing. Sarah was going to the police... and Bethany ran her down in the street."
"And your mother," Davis added, her voice trembling with disgust, "paid the mechanic to crush the evidence."
Suddenly, Davis’s radio crackled to life with static, followed by the urgent voice of the dispatcher.
*"Unit four, Unit four, we have a priority one alert. State Police have located Bethany Vance’s vehicle heading westbound on Interstate 85, speeds exceeding one hundred miles per hour. Vehicle has failed to yield. Pursuit is active."*
I scrambled to my feet, clutching the documents to my chest. "Where is she going?"
Miller’s voice came over the radio from outside. *"She’s heading toward the hospital. She knows David left. She thinks the kid is unprotected!"*
My blood turned to pure liquid nitrogen.
May you like
"Rosie," I screamed, dropping everything except the folio and bolting down the stairs into the darkness.
***
