No second key.
No paper.
Nothing.
Then Clara inspected the little remaining crust baked to the skillet.
She found a tiny piece of waxed cloth.
Caleb picked it up.
Old.
Almost dissolved.
He rubbed it between his fingers.
“Wrapped.”
Clara nodded.
“Someone sealed the key.”
“And buried it inside the cornmeal.”
“Or inside something placed beneath it.”
They both turned toward the crock again.
Caleb held it near the lantern.
The interior looked ordinary.
Clara reached inside.
Her large fingers explored the bottom.
Then stopped.
“What?”
“There’s a ridge.”
Caleb took the crock.
He felt it too.
A false bottom.
Twenty minutes later they had the stoneware wrapped in towels while Caleb worked a narrow iron pick along the edge.
Clara watched.
“Don’t break it.”
“It’s a crock.”
“It survived longer than either of us.”
“That isn’t a reason.”
“It is to me.”
He looked up.
“You get sentimental about kitchenware?”
“I get sentimental about things men are about to destroy unnecessarily.”
Caleb smiled.
“There she is.”
“Who?”
“The woman who threatened me with a rolling pin because I used your preserving spoon to clean a rifle.”
“You deserved worse.”
The bottom shifted.
Both stopped.
Caleb carefully lifted a thin clay insert.
Beneath it lay nothing.
Only dust.
Clara frowned.
“That makes no sense.”
Caleb examined the key again.
Seventeen.
He turned toward the hallway.
The smile vanished from his face.
Clara saw recognition.
“What?”
He did not answer.
“Caleb.”
He walked toward the hall.
Clara followed.
The cabin had been built in sections.
The original structure was nearly forty years old, though Caleb’s father expanded it twice.
Kitchen.
Main room.
Sleeping loft.
Small office.
Pantry.
A narrow hall ended at a door Clara had never seen opened.
Usually sacks of tools and old furniture stood in front of it.
She had asked once.
Caleb had shrugged.
“Storage.”
“Why locked?”
“Lost key.”
She had forgotten.
Now Caleb stood before it.
He moved two sacks aside.
Then an old broken chair.
Dust darkened the floor.
At eye level, the door appeared ordinary.
Lower down, beneath years of grime, a small metal plate was attached to the lock.
Caleb rubbed his thumb across it.
Clara’s breath caught.
17.
Neither spoke.
Caleb looked at her.
She covered her mouth.
“That key was inside breakfast.”
“Yes.”
“You find that normal?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Caleb inserted the key.
It resisted.
He turned harder.
Nothing.
Clara stood close behind him.
“Don’t break it.”
“You say that about everything.”
“Because you solve half your problems by applying more muscle.”
“It works.”
“Until it doesn’t.”