Silent Harbour

Chapter 8: The Key

I wake up in a daze, unsure of the time. If the setting sun is any indication, I must have fallen asleep on the sofa while watching TV. I never realized how overstimulated and drained teachers must be after an entire day of classes. The stiffness in my neck reminds me that I can't afford another night on the couch. I begin to tidy up the living room quickly. As I bend down to pick Peter's agenda up off the floor, a key falls from its front pocket. I pick it up and inspect it under the light. To my dismay, there's nothing engraved on it to suggest what it might be for, and it looks like your typical hardware store-issued key. What kind of person stashes a key in an agenda anyway? It seems like the more information I gather about Peter, the more apparent it becomes that I knew very little about him in the first place. It could just be an extra house key. Peter wasn't the type of person to hide the spare key under an artificial rock. After all, he'd probably always carry his agenda in his bag coming to and from school. A petty thief wouldn't think to look inside a man's planner for his house key. In any competent jurisdiction, Peter's home would have been considered a potential secondary or tertiary crime scene and secured accordingly. But Silent Harbour PD was understaffed, under-resourced and sloppy at best. If this key was intended as a spare, there was a good chance I'd still be able to get in.

It's 7:34 pm. I reconsider my early bedtime in favour of pursuing this potential new lead. Changing out of my work clothes, I throw on my most nondescript outfit, a black hoodie and leggings–so as not to draw the attention of any curious neighbors. Once the sun sets, I'll make my way over to Peter's house and try my luck to see if the key really is for his front door.

I step into a pair of black trainers and walk the two blocks to Peter's. To my relief, I arrive at the house without bumping into anyone I know. The streets and sidewalks are empty. All the houses on the block are silent, with minimal signs of activity from within, and only a handful of lights remain turned on. Peter's front lawn is still overflowing with flowers, candles, and small knick knacks that the townspeople left as signs of remembrance. The house itself is not particularly big. It's a quaint looking bungalow with dark red brickwork and a handsome wood-shingle roof. It's clear that Peter took great care of the house. The porch has been completely redone with sturdy looking composite deck boards and a glossy veneer finish. To the left of the front door sits a patio swing complete with an awning and a stately structure, now empty, that I imagined would have made a gorgeous white planter box come Spring. The front entrance mat reads 'Home Sweet Home.' I make my way up the steps and reach down to pull on the corner of the mat, turning it over. As I expected, no key. I take the small gold key out of the pocket of my hoodie and try it on the keyway. No luck. I remove the key and jab it in again, this time at an angle, but it is clear that it's not a match.

I quickly scan the property to ensure I'm alone before trying the patio windows, but with no success. I creep along the side of the house, careful of my footing. The grass is long and unruly, and the brick is covered with the dried-out vines of last season's Virginia Creeper. I have to push aside the debris from the withered foliage to uncover the side window. It doesn't budge. I press my forehead to the glass and strain my eyes trying to see inside, but it's impossibly dark. Pulling a small flashlight out of my pocket, I'm careful not to draw attention to myself. I point the light into the grass and hold it up just enough so I can see the outline of a sofa and a living room table. I pull my hood up over my hair and hold the light to my cheek, using my hood as cover. I can see enough to make out a kitchen table and a grandfather clock alongside what appears to be an old bookcase. The place looks neat, undisturbed. The kitchen archway gives way to a corridor, and I catch the reflection of the streetlights through the front door where the hall ends.

It's hard to believe that anyone lived here little more than a week ago. The only giveaway is a single coffee mug left out on the counter by the sink. I pass the flashlight through the room again slowly. I have the light pointed at the bookcase, trying to make out the titles of the tomes on the bottom shelf when a shadow casts over the staircase. Startled, I drop the flashlight. Cursing under my breath, I duck down to retrieve it and hurry to shine the light in the same spot I'd seen the shadow. I don't know whether I'm relieved or disappointed that it's gone now.

Brushing it off as a simple trick of the light, I continue my search through Peter's property. The sound of rustling leaves crunching beneath my feet unnerves me. I find myself holding my breath each time, convinced it will draw the attention of some passer-byer or nosey neighbour. I take a moment to gather myself and just pan my eyes over the house. It's such a shame to think of all of Peter's things unquestionably collecting dust. If the stack of pots and bags of potting mix lined up by the backdoor are any indication, Peter developed quite a greenthumb over the years. Was there someone in his life who would water his plants in his absence?

I'm jolted out of my thoughts by the sound of a car engine revving somewhere up the street. I take cover under a large maple tree at the edge of the yard and watch as a grey BMW turns onto the street. It slows to a stop about two houses down from Peter's and rolls to a stop.

I recognize that car. I'd seen it at the memorial. Not wanting to chance an encounter with someone who might recognize me, I head for the back of the property and scale the fence to make a quick getaway. My leggings catch on a split plank and I instinctively pull the cloth free with my foot. Aside from a rip in the fabric, I make it out unscathed.

The walk back to my parents' house is shorter than anticipated, most likely due to the adrenaline coursing through my body, but I'm not complaining. I unlock the front door and close it shut immediately. Sliding the chain into position, my back slides to the floor from the intensity of what I just experienced.

I'm unsure whether to call the recon mission to Peter's house a success or failure. Did I see someone inside, or was it just my imagination and emotions getting the best of me? I close my eyes and focus on the sounds of my own house. The refrigerator humming in the kitchen. The wind rattling the single-pane windows in the living room. The sounds are surprisingly helpful in quieting my pulsating heart, when suddenly my phone vibrates, as if jolting my heart into the rhythm of a galloping racehorse.

I pull my phone from my pocket and unlock the screen. (1) New message from Erin Halstead. I open it.

Emery,

I hope you had a good first day at school. Just wanted to touch bases with you about the open house from this weekend. I think it went great. We have two potential buyers with equally enticing offers. They both see the house as the perfect fixer-upper – good bones, nice layout, but in need of some more modern fixtures and touches. Are you free tomorrow to grab dinner in Cedar Creek and discuss how we ought to proceed? Let me know asap. You might be on your way out of town sooner than you thought ;)

- E.H.

If the situation were any different, I'd undeniably relish the news of the sale running seamlessly. Yet, with the investigation finally showing signs of progress, I silently pray for a stroke of luck to permit me to reject the offers or at the very least, postpone the deal without guilt. In a rare occurrence of gratitude, I'm glad my parents relinquished all decision-making to me.

My parents might get a laugh from my burgeoning faith in the cosmos, in destiny, and in signs. For years, my father and I would tease my mother for hers. But what better sign from the universe that I am heading in the right direction than Erin scheduling our meeting to take place in the same town that I was already planning to scope out for another potential lead?

After texting Erin a confirmation regarding tomorrow's dinner, I drag my feet up the stairs to my childhood bedroom. I curl up in bed and shut my eyes, hoping sleep will claim me swiftly, all while too tired to double-check if my alarm is properly set to wake me for my second day of teaching.