One night, I heard a faint clickingsound. Like something metal brushing against metal. The sound was coming from inside that cabinet.

I pressed my ear against it.

Silence.

I told myself it was just the old house settling. But the feeling wouldn’t leave me.

That night, once Mr. Whitaker had gone to bed, I tiptoed back into the study with a flashlight. I knelt by the cabinet and ran my fingers along the latch. It was an old lock, rusted from age. My pulse pounded in my ears.