Page 98 of The Last Morgan

“DNA verification is required,” he said.

Lucy pressed her hand against the panel. She felt a sharp prick and just like that the machine whirred.

Access Granted.

With a deep, groaning sound, the door slid open. Lucy removed her hand to see the tiniest cut.

They stepped inside.

It was a vault — no other word for it.

The walls were lined with old safety deposit boxes; thick shelves stacked with dusty files and sealed crates. In the center of the room was a single plinth, and on it... a small black velvet box.

Lucy reached out, her fingers brushing the velvet. She half expected alarms to go off or the floor to collapse, but nothing happened.

She lifted the box.

It was surprisingly heavy for something so small.

She popped it open — and there, nestled inside, was a sleek black bank card and a tiny gold key, no bigger than her thumb.

The key had a serial number engraved on it.

Byron leaned over her shoulder. “Another fucking key?”

Barnaby sighed. “It's a deposit box key.”

Lucy swallowed. “At a bank.”

They all exchanged glances.

“We need to get out of here,” Corey said, his voice low. “We can come back at a later to retrieve the rest of these items”

They backed out carefully, retracing their steps. Lucy tucked the velvet box into an inner pocket of her tactical jacket.

When they reached the main hallway again, they all stopped.

It felt… wrong.

Like the shadows were heavier, the air thicker.

Byron shifted beside Lucy. He didn't say anything, but she felt his tension like a wire pulled taut.

Barnaby adjusted his laptop strap. “Let’s move.”

They didn’t speak again until they were safely back in the car.

As they sped through the streets, Lucy turned the key over in her hands, tracing the tiny numbers.

“This is it,” she said softly, “I can feel it, this is the final piece to the puzzle, and I can finally get the answers I have been looking for”.

They arrived home, tired but wired, the morning sun just beginning to creep over the estate walls. Breakfast was waitingand ready, laid out like a feast on the long oak dining table. And so was her uncle.

Lucy barely stepped into the room before she saw him standing at the far end, arms crossed, his face twisted into a look that could curdle milk.

"Where's Lillian?" Lucy asked, shrugging off her jacket.

"She's at a hotel with the kids," he said flatly.