Chapter 17 - The Broken Lock
We guided Mrs. Baxter through the back door of the cottage, slipping through the dark garden hedge into the alley where we had parked.
The dark sedan remained out front, completely oblivious to our retreat.
Malik drove through back roads, avoiding the main avenues.
Noah was on his phone in the back seat, typing frantically.
"I just pulled the original 1962 blueprints of Oakridge High from the county archive portal," Noah said.
"The boiler room was decommissioned in 2001, right after the new heating system was installed."
"They poured a six-inch concrete slab over the sub-basement access."
"Who signed off on the closure inspection?" Malik asked, his eyes darting to the rearview mirror.
"District Attorney Marcus Vance," Noah replied, reading from the screen.
"He was serving as the district legal counsel back then."
We brought Mrs. Baxter to my sister’s home across the county line, ensuring she was hidden and safe.
Then, Malik turned the car back toward the high school.
"Malik, we should call the state police," I pleaded, grabbing his forearm.
"The county sheriff answers to Marcus Vance," Malik stated flatly.
"If we hand over that green box without physical proof of what lies beneath that concrete, it disappears forever."
"Just like the truth disappeared in 1999."
"Just like my voice disappeared until you took that picture."
I looked at the determination etched into the lines around his eyes.
The thirteen-year-old boy who stood bleeding in front of thirty classmates was gone.
In his place stood a man who would not let another innocent life be erased.
"I'm coming inside with you," I said.
"Me too," Noah added from the back.
When we arrived back at Oakridge High, the security floodlights illuminated the new community wing.
We walked through the service entrance using Noah's faculty keycard.
The electronic lock beeped green.
We descended the concrete steps into the basement.
The air grew damp, thick with the scent of aged limestone and rusty pipes.
At the end of the long subterranean corridor stood the heavy iron door of the old boiler room.
The chain wrapped around the handle was thick.
Noah pulled a heavy crowbar from the maintenance locker on the wall.
May you like
Malik took it from his hands.
With a single, fierce heave of Malik’s shoulders, the ancient iron link snapped with a deafening ring.
