The Lock Knows My Secret

Of course the first man to notice my tool is the one standing in the dark at the boat shed. I suppose that is funny. I laughed once while I was twisting free, but the sound belonged to somebody braver than me.

The marks on my metal tool match the cut in Elsie’s photograph of the strongbox lock. That is not a coincidence, and it is not a discovery I can tuck away as curiosity. The green-coated man knew enough to stop me. His question about Arthur’s cave sounded more important to him than my answer could possibly have been. I wanted to see fear move across his face. Instead, he kicked my tool into the mud like he already owned it.

I wrapped the thing carefully because it is evidence, and because I am still too proud to admit what it has made me. The cut matches my own hidden find. For one ugly moment I wondered whether keeping quiet had led him straight to me, or whether he has been watching me for much longer.

I sealed the photographs separately from the tool because I do not trust either one alone. I also do not trust myself to handle both while angry. Tomorrow I can call this procedure. Tonight it is caution with a very ugly edge to it.

The worst part is that I still have not declared my find. Every secret I preserve gives Arthur’s version of events a little more room to stand. I keep telling myself I am protecting him, but some nights I suspect I am only protecting the boy who left school at sixteen and needs one discovery to make every mistake worth something.