Chapter Ten

The door creaked open with the kind of sound that made you immediately want to close it again.

Tom paused on the threshold, listening. Nothing but the hum of distant lights and a faint mechanical buzz coming from somewhere deep in the building.

He turned to Claire. “Still want to be a felon?”

She grinned. “You first.”

They slipped inside. The hallway was lined with posters from old plays and community fundraisers, curling at the edges and sun-faded. Tom took the lead, flashlight from his phone low and steady. Claire walked just behind him, footsteps quiet on the tile.

“Room 4 should be this way,” he whispered.

Claire pointed at a hand-painted sign: Dressing Rooms & Storage →

They followed it past the stage entrance, where a single overhead light cast long shadows across rows of empty seats. Claire slowed, staring at the quiet stage.

“Caleb did a play here last year,” she said, barely above a whisper. “He was a tree.”

Tom looked at her. “How’d he do?”

“Stood there the whole time. Didn’t blink. I think someone tried to water him at intermission.”

Tom smirked.

They turned a corner and found a narrow door labeled Room 4. The knob turned easily. Inside, the air smelled like sawdust and fabric glue. A workbench, some costume racks, a half-covered piano. Mismatched trunks stacked two-high in the back.

Claire stepped in first. “Well. Here we are. What now?”

Tom scanned the room. “We look, I guess.”

They started checking drawers. Cabinets. Old boxes of bulbs. Nothing. After ten minutes, Tom sat back on a folded canvas chair and rubbed his eyes.

“This is stupid,” he muttered. “Maybe the key was just sentimental. Maybe he meant us to remember this place, not find something.”

Claire didn’t stop digging. “He left a key marked CT – 4. That doesn’t scream ‘symbolism’ to me.”

Tom gestured at the mess. “Maybe it’s gone. Maybe someone cleaned it out.”

Claire stood on her tiptoes to peer over a tall shelf. “He didn’t strike me as a guy who trusted cleaning crews.”

Tom let out a breath. “We don’t even know what we’re looking for.”

Claire crouched near a cabinet with a broken hinge. “That’s the point. You don’t know it until you find it.”

Before he could answer, a noise echoed in the hallway — the squeak of a wheel and the dull thump of a mop bucket.

They froze.

Claire’s eyes went wide. She dove behind the costume rack. Tom ducked behind the piano, knocking something over in the process.

Footsteps neared the room. Keys jingled.

Claire whispered, “If this is how I go, tell Caleb I love him.”

“You’re hiding in a prom dress. You’ll be fine.”

“That’s why it smells like hairspray and teenage heartbreak.”

The footsteps paused. A key rattled against the door but didn’t turn. After a moment, they heard another door open down the hall. Then close. Then silence.

Tom peeked over the piano. Then stood.

Claire reappeared, half draped in tulle and entirely over it. “This ranks just above telling little Billy Harkins to stop picking his nose and trying to put it on Addison Clarke.”

Tom stood, deadpan. “Glad I didn’t get into teaching.”

He scanned the room again. His eyes landed on the cabinet Claire had crouched near. “You checked that one?”

Claire walked over. Tugged it open. Nothing inside but a dusty sewing machine and a warped clipboard. She paused. Tilted her head.

Tom stepped closer. “What?”

She reached behind the machine, her fingers feeling along the back wall. Something shifted with a faint scrape.

Then: a dull clink.

Claire pulled out a small, square object wrapped in cloth. She unwrapped it slowly — layer by layer — until the edge of a weathered cigar box emerged.

Tom didn’t move. Just stared.

Claire looked up. “Want to do the honors?”

He hesitated, then stepped forward and opened it.

Inside: an old photograph of a young man standing outside the shop. Folded paper with handwriting. A watch with no hands.

Tom picked up the note. Read it once. Then again.

Claire watched his face. “What is it?”

His voice was low. “It says, ‘For James. When the bells stop.’”

“James?”

Tom shook his head. “Not a name I know.”

Claire stared at the watch. “No hands.”

“No ticking,” Tom added. “No bells.”

They stood there in the quiet.

Claire looked at him. “You think he left this for someone else?”

“I think… he left it for whoever found it.” He folded the note and looked around the room. “It wasn’t supposed to be easy.”

She nodded slowly. “He wanted it found when someone was ready to look.”

Tom looked at her. Really looked. “You ever get the feeling he knew we’d come here?”

Claire’s voice was soft. “Not knew. Just… hoped.”

A long silence followed.

Then Claire smiled gently. “Still think it was just a key?”

Tom glanced down at the cigar box. “No. It’s a thread.”

Claire raised a brow. “And we’re following it?”

Tom nodded. “We’re following it.”

They stood there a while longer, neither rushing the silence. Then Claire exhaled, light but shaky. “I forgot how much adrenaline hurts.”

Tom half-smiled. “You did great. Real subtle, diving into a rack of prom dresses.”

“I told you,” she said, brushing lint off her shirt. “If we go to jail, I’m going in style.”

He sat back down in the chair. “You always like this? Just—jump into things?”

Claire considered that. “Not usually. But something about this… your dad, these notes… it doesn’t feel like breaking rules. It feels like honoring something.”

Tom rested his elbows on his knees. “It’s weird. He never told me anything. But somehow, now that he’s gone, it’s like… he’s talking more than he ever did.”

Claire walked to the bench he’d touched earlier and sat beside him. Close, but not touching.

“He left pieces of himself in this town,” she said. “People, clocks, little things. You’re just finally seeing what everyone else already knew.”

Tom let that sit for a moment. Then, lighter: “You ever get in trouble as a kid?”

Claire blinked. “What kind of question is that?”

“I mean, since we’re sharing crimes.”

She smirked. “In fifth grade, I wrote fake instructions on the board when we had a sub. She followed them. We watched Charlotte’s Web instead of doing math.”

“So naturally, you became a teacher.”

“I figured if I was going to cause chaos, I might as well get paid for it.”

She nudged him with her knee. “Alright, your turn. Tell me the dumbest thing you ever did as a kid.”

Tom thought for a second. “Okay. When I was a kid, my friends and I used to race our bikes down the hill near Lake Street.”

Claire raised an eyebrow. “That’s steep.”

“Yep. We took the chains off our bikes, so no brakes. The game was to see who could make it across the busy road at the bottom without getting hit.”

“Did you?”

“No...” He paused. “But there was a dirt mound on the other side. I hit it full speed, went flying, and landed in a patch of thorn bushes.”

Claire burst out laughing. “And here I thought you were the responsible one.”

He paused, then added, “And now look at me—breaking and entering. Really grown into myself.”

She looked at him then. Really looked. “This is the most fun I’ve had in a long time.”

“Me too,” he said.

They stood and made their way back out, slower now. As they reached the lobby, Tom paused near a poster from a production of Our Town.

“My dad worked on that one,” he said. “I remember because he brought home a prop bell and told me not to touch it. So of course, I rang it for an hour.”

Claire smiled. “What’d he do?”

“Nothing. Just looked at me. Didn’t even say a word. And somehow that made it worse.”

They stepped outside into the cool night. The lot was quiet. Bugs flickered under the streetlight.

Claire let out a breath. “We should go. I need to pick up Caleb.”

Tom nodded, unlocking her door. “We can figure out who James is after.”

Claire smiled. “You’re really in this now?”

He looked at her. “Yeah. I think I am.”

They climbed into the truck. The engine turned over with a low rumble, headlights sweeping across the dark lot.

Neither of them said much as they pulled away.

But both were thinking the same thing: They weren’t just chasing Ellis’s trail anymore. They were starting to understand the man behind it.

Together.

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