Chapter 3 - The Broken Virgin
The next morning, Callie waited until the specialized elder-care nurse she had hired with the last of her savings arrived to watch Geneva for a few hours. The nurse, a kind, middle-aged woman named Maria, gave Callie a reassuring smile as she stepped into the apartment.
“Go get some fresh air, honey,” Maria said, noticing the dark circles under Callie’s eyes. “You’ve been working yourself to the bone. I’ll make sure she eats her lunch.”
“Thank you, Maria,” Callie said, clutching her canvas tote bag tightly against her side.
Inside the bag was a small, rusted hammer, a flashlight, and her notebook.
Callie drove her old, sputtering sedan to her grandmother’s former neighborhood—a historic district of craftsman-style homes near the riverfront. As she turned onto the oak-lined street, her heart sank. The beautiful garden Geneva had spent decades cultivating was gone, replaced by a muddy lawn trampled by construction vehicles. A large, yellow “SOLD” sign stood near the sidewalk, and the windows of the beautiful house were covered in dark plastic sheets. A dumpster filled with old drywall and shattered wood sat in the driveway.
They were gutting the house. Joel and Dakota were destroying every trace of Geneva’s life to remodel it for a quick flip.
Callie parked a block away and walked up the service alley behind the property. She knew the layout of the yard by heart. She slipped through the loose wooden slat in the back fence, her boots sinking into the wet mud. The backyard was littered with old furniture, including her grandmother’s favorite rocking chair, now cracked and rotting in the rain.
She walked toward the old detached garage at the back of the lot. It was a small, weathered structure covered in ivy, with a rusted padlock hanging from the latch.
Callie reached into her bag, pulled out the small hammer, and wedged the claw beneath the rusted screws of the latch. With a sharp, desperate heave, she pulled. The old wood groaned and splintered, the latch popping free with a loud metallic snap.
She slipped inside, quickly pulling the wooden door shut behind her.
The garage was dark, smelling of motor oil, damp earth, and old newspapers. Dust motes danced in the thin beams of light piercing through the cracks in the walls. Callie switched on her flashlight, her sweep of the room revealing shelves filled with rusted paint cans, old gardening tools, and boxes of Christmas decorations.
In the far corner, sitting on a high shelf beneath a layer of thick cobwebs, was a small, dusty plaster statue of the Virgin Mary.
Callie’s breath hitched.
She walked over, her boots crunching on the dry leaves that had blown inside. She reached up, her fingers brushing away the sticky webs, and carefully lifted the statue down.
The statue was old, its blue and white paint peeling, its hands chipped. But what caught Callie’s attention was the base. The plaster near the bottom had been cracked and sloppily glued back together.
She turned the statue over.
There was a small, hollow cavity in the bottom of the plaster base, sealed with a piece of faded gray duct tape.
Callie peeled back the sticky tape, her fingers trembling.
Inside the hollow space was a single, heavy brass key with a small, circular tag attached to it. Written on the faded paper tag in her grandmother’s neat, elegant cursive were the words:
St. Jude’s—Box 5821.
Callie stared at the key, a sob of pure relief escaping her throat. She clutched it to her chest, her mind spinning. St. Jude’s was the oldest Catholic church in the city, located in the historic downtown district. It was famous for its massive, silver-plated bell tower that chimed every hour, a sound that could be heard for miles across the river.
Box 5821... where the bell sings. Under the shadow of the silver tower.
It wasn't a bank safe deposit box. It was a private locker or deposit box located inside the old parish office of the church itself.
Suddenly, the wooden door of the garage was thrown open, flooding the space with bright, blinding daylight.
“I knew I’d find you slinking around here, you little rat,” a voice sneered from the doorway.
May you like
Callie gasped, spinning around, her hand instinctively shoving the brass key deep into her coat pocket as she stared at the silhouette standing in the door.
It was Dakota.
