PART 13: THE CLOCK WAS ALREADY OPEN
Nobody bothered clearing the table.
The roast sat untouched.
Linda grabbed the evidence bag containing the brass key.
“The church is fifteen minutes away.”
“Ten if I drive,” the deputy said.
“I’ll follow,” I answered.
“No,” Paula said immediately.
“You are not staying behind.”
She looked at me with tears still clinging to her eyelashes.
“I’ve already spent four years not standing beside you.”
“I’m not making that mistake again.”
For the first time all afternoon…
I smiled.
It was small.
But it was real.
We left together.
Linda rode with the deputy.
Paula drove my old sedan.
Colleen sat beside me.
Janice and Dale followed in Dale’s pickup.
The entire drive, nobody spoke.
My mind stayed on Harold.
The grandfather clock.
The brass key.
The strange Christmas gift.
All those years…
He had been preparing for something I never knew existed.
As we turned into the church parking lot, my heart sank.
Three sheriff’s cruisers were already there.
Yellow tape stretched across the front entrance.
Linda climbed out before the deputy had even stopped the car.
“What happened?”
An older officer recognized her.
“You the attorney?”
“Yes.”
He nodded toward the sanctuary.
“You’d better come inside.”
The church looked exactly as I remembered.
The wooden pews.
The stained-glass windows.
The smell of old pine and candle wax.
Only one thing was different.
The grandfather clock.
Its front door hung open.
The pendulum lay on the floor.
Someone had already dismantled the lower cabinet.
I felt my knees weaken.
“We’re too late.”
An evidence technician shook his head.
“Maybe.”
He pointed toward the hollow base.
“It was definitely opened.”
“But?”
“But whoever searched it left empty-handed.”
Linda frowned.
“How do you know?”
He held up a small flashlight.
“There are fresh pry marks.”
“But there’s also dust.”
“A lot of dust.”
He shined the light inside.
The compartment was empty…
Except for one object.
A folded envelope.
My name was written across the front.
Marguerite.
My hands trembled as I reached for it.
The paper was yellow with age.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
Harold’s.
I carefully unfolded the letter.
Everyone gathered around.
Even Dale.
Even Janice.
I began to read aloud.
My Dearest Maggie,
If you’re reading this, then someone finally found the place I wanted them to find.
I stopped.
Linda looked at me.
“He expected this.”
I nodded and continued.
The clock was never meant to protect the truth.
It was meant to reveal who was still looking for it.
A chill swept through the church.
Harold had expected someone to search the clock.
Years before it happened.
I kept reading.
If Richard is still chasing my papers, he’ll believe the real evidence was hidden here.
He’ll be wrong.
Janice slowly whispered,
“Of course…”
“What?” Paula asked.
“He used the oldest trick in the book.”
Linda looked at the letter.
“A decoy.”
Janice nodded.
“He wanted Richard to waste time.”
I turned the page.
There was one final paragraph.
The real proof is somewhere no thief would ever steal… because they would never believe it had value.
Below that…
Harold had written only six words.
Ask Father Michael about Tuesday mornings.
The entire church fell silent.
The current priest looked up from the back pew.
“My name is Father Michael.”
Every head turned toward him.
He looked confused.
“I’ve only been here twelve years.”
Linda folded the letter.
“Harold died twenty-eight years ago.”
Father Michael’s expression changed.
“There was another Father Michael before me.”
“Father Michael Donnelly.”
“He retired.”
“He’s ninety-four now.”
“Still alive.”
Hope flickered through the room.
“Where is he?” I asked.
The priest answered quietly.
“He lives at St. Anne’s Retirement Home.”
Then his face suddenly grew serious.
“He always told me…”
“If anyone ever came asking about Harold Ellis…”
“…I was to call him first.”
My heart began to pound.
“You already have, haven’t you?”
The priest nodded slowly.
“I called him twenty minutes ago.”
“And?”
“He said something I didn’t understand.”
“What did he say?”
The priest looked directly at me.
“He said…”
‘Tell Maggie the Bible she gave me is finally safe to return.’
I stared at him.
A Bible.
Not a safe.
Not a deed.
Not a bank box.
A Bible.
Then, all at once…
I remembered the missing family Bible Harold had insisted on donating to the church the week before he died.
I had never seen it again.
