Page 72 of Blurred Lines

"No shit, Sherlock," he almost shouts. "Do you not see what she's done to us? How can you?—"

"Because I still love her. And so do you. And she needs our help right now. And she is carrying our baby."

Silas stops talking. He drops his face between his palms and lets out a groan. "Damn this to hell."

Caeleb pats his back. "Let's go, man. There's no fighting this."

"Fine," he finally mutters. "But when everything goes south like it will, don't you dare blame me."

We head to Emily's in fifteen minutes. The sun is softer today, still veiled behind a thin sheet of gray clouds. As we pull up in the driveway, I see her out in the garden, a book in her hand. She sees us coming and her face goes dark.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, her tone jagged.

"We've come to help find the treasure," I say calmly. "And before you make a big show and tell us you can do it without us, I'll save you the trouble by saying we already know that. We know you can do everything on your own, that you've fought and won your wars by going solo. We respect that, hell, that's one of the reasons we?—"

I falter for a second. "It's not about your independence here. We came because we want to be of use, to make this a little easier for you, even if we don't really need to. If you still don't want our help, say the words and we'll be out of your hair."

Emily looks at all three of us, her eyes somehow entirely unreadable. I see her lips tremble. Then, she stands up from her chair. "Thanks. I could do with the help. Do you want something to eat first?"

"Work first, food later," I say, trying to keep the grin off my face. A faint flush colors Emily's cheeks, a touch of pink against the lingering paleness. Small victories, I suppose.

Silas huffs behind me, but a hint of the usual fire is missing from his eyes. I catch Caeleb shooting him a relieved look. Progress, however slow, is still progress.

Emily nods, a determined set to her shoulders as she leads us through the labyrinthine corridors of her extravagant mansion. My boots scuff the polished marble floors, the echo a stark contrast to the tense silence that stretches between us. We quickly step back outside and head to the library. The familiar scent of old paper and leather washes over me as we step through the doorway. Emily points towards the towering bookcase, her voice barely above a whisper. Is that the one?"

I nod and point to the book that hides the passageway. Emily pulls it out slowly, almost reverentially. Like the last time, the room that never was looms ahead. I hear her intake a sharp breath. "All the years I lived here," she mumbles to herself. "I never knew."

My heart suddenly hurts for her. How little she knew her own father, all because of his past, his demons, his heartaches. I silently vow to never repeat this.

"Alright, let's get to it then," Caeleb says, his tone matter-of-fact.

An awkward dance of avoidance ensues. We follow Emily across the chamber. Years of neglect have left a fine layer of dust on everything, but even so, the opulence is undeniable. Sunlight filters through a narrow slit high in the wall, casting a spectral glow on the treasures stashed within. My breath hitches when I see it: a delicate, antique dresser tucked into an alcove. Its porcelain handles are shaped like blooming roses, a stark contrast to the harsh stone of the room.

"This was my grandmother's," Emily says, her voice hushed as she runs a fingertip over the smooth wood surface. "She'd spend hours here, brushing my hair, telling me stories."

A small, ornate key rests on the dresser top, glinting dully in the dim light. Emily picks it up, a puzzled frown creasing her brow. "I didn't even know this was here."

Her gaze settles on a large, weathered chest of drawers standing against the far wall. Hope flickers in her eyes as she cautiously crosses the room and inserts the key into a tarnished brass lock. With a rusty groan, the lock gives, and she tentatively pulls open the top drawer.

An involuntary gasp escapes my lips. Instead of stacks of linens or disused silverware, the drawer is filled with neatly folded children's clothes. Silken dresses, delicate bonnets, and tiny, embroidered shoes.

"Oh my God," Emily breathes, reaching inside with trembling fingers. She lifts a faded blue dress, its fabric soft and worn with age. "I remember this." She runs a finger over the intricate lace trim, her eyes misting over. "It was my absolute favorite. My mother made it for my sixth birthday."

For a moment, the strong, independent Emily fades away, replaced by a little girl clinging to a memory of simpler times. My chest aches with a mix of sadness and a fierce protectiveness.

"Let's see what else is in here," Caeleb says gently, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. He understands, on some level, the significance of this discovery.

Together, we sift through the drawers, uncovering a trove of childhood treasures. A chipped wooden doll with mismatched eyes, its painted smile a testament to countless hours of play. A small, battered music box that still plays a tinny, haunting melody.

As we reach the bottom drawer, Emily's hand stills.

There, like a forgotten treasure, is a small, metallic safe.

"You've got to be kidding me," Silas mutters, a rare flicker of amusement in his eyes.

Emily looks like she might faint. "How on earth are we supposed to open that?" she asks, panic rising in her voice.

"Combination lock," I observe, tracing the cold metal with my fingertips. "Numbers, probably a date. Your birthday?"

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