A Key for Every Lock
Theresa gathers up her detritus—weapon, bag, jacket, Locke’s file—and heads to her car. It’s dark and cold. Bleak. The night matches her mood.
The drive to her house is only five minutes. Out of habit, she takes a left instead of a right and cruises by the Lockes’ place.
The gates have a single string of small lights that blink sporadically, and a wreath with a red velvet ribbon that’s seen better days.
Once, they had the nicest house in town.
It’s still the largest, certainly. Set back behind an ornate black iron gate, the drive disappears around the bend so you can’t see the house from the street, but the lights would shine through the trees like a beacon.
They always valued their privacy, but the gate in front of the sweeping lawn was a later addition—after the murder, the media lined their drive for weeks.
It was installed and they hired security to ensure that never happened again.
Once, the whole town would come to the Lockes’ to celebrate the holidays.
The first Sunday in December, they hosted an open house.
People would filter in and out throughout the afternoon and evening, sipping festive cocktails and strolling the garden paths lined with ice sculptures and decorations.
All the lights in the house would be turned on, the manse glowing with joy and goodwill.
It was as looked forward to as Grand March, a Malogen town tradition on prom night that stretched back generations.
But the accusations against their son were too much.
The open house was permanently canceled.
Mrs. Locke stopped coming to town entirely and rarely left the house anymore; Colonel Locke blustered about for a few years until he, too, withdrew.
In one fell swoop, they lost their whole family, their next generation, their dignity, their power, and their moral high ground.
Having a very dead daughter-in-law and a son accused of murder was too much to overcome.
They no longer ruled the town. Honestly, Theresa felt sorry for them, rattling around alone in that big old house.
What was strange—they never called to see if there had been motion on the case.
They paid for Trey’s legal team, but the moment it became clear there wouldn’t be charges, that was it.
They wrote him off. Supposedly, they hadn’t spoken since.
Andrew had never returned to town, and she had never been able to get a complete solve on the case.
Chloe and Eden’s parents were gone now, killed by the sorrow. He had a fast-moving cancer, and she died a week later, both within a few months of Chloe’s murder.
Hard on Eden, losing them all at once. That kind of sorrow leaves a mark. And Eden wasn’t the most stable person to begin with.
Theresa hadn’t planned to be thinking about Chloe and Eden tonight.
Oh, she thinks of them often, but it’s been ten years.
A song from that time will remind her, or someone will ask about it, or she’ll be on the road by the Lockes’ place, and it will all come flooding back.
She’s done a pretty good job of moving past.
Because every time she thinks of that sunny girl and her Christmas-paper-wrapped pregnancy test, she breaks down. And the thoughts start to loop.
Does she think Andrew killed Chloe?
Yes. Yes, she does. Deep in her heart of hearts, there was always something edgy about their relationship.
She couldn’t put her finger on it, certainly couldn’t prove it; but in the way of small towns, little bits of gossip would appear, like shards of glass after an accident, always popping up when you least expect them.
Was the black eye really from the softball pitch?
Did that sprained wrist really happen at the pool when she jumped off the diving board?
Were those overheard arguments a result of an indiscretion?
Why was she shopping at the drugstore the next town over?
Small towns love their gossip; it’s as dangerous as wildfire through the forests that surround them. And inevitable when you have fewer than five thousand people in such a small geographical space. It’s a sweet little town, haunted now by a sorrowful murder.
Tonight, the lights are off in the Locke house.
They’re certainly asleep at this hour. Not that she thinks Andrew is there.
A decade later, on the run from something only he knows about, would the once glory boy turned villain return home when his world blew up?
Maybe. Maybe not. He was certainly close by earlier today, and his actions, walking out of the airport and leaving his young family behind, only add to the sense of dislocation Theresa has always felt when faced with the Locke family.
No way to know for sure. She should stop, roust them with her questions, but something holds her back.
Tomorrow she’ll go there and talk to them, see if Andrew has been in touch.
It’s been ten years. Another few hours won’t make that much of a difference.
It’s not like he’s done something that would let her put cuffs on him. It’s all just fact-finding now.
She turns onto her street. Its familiar hominess looks lonely tonight.
Security lights on the porches, more important to keep wildlife at bay than criminals.
A few lawns in need of trims or love—there was a series of tornadoes a few months earlier, and downed trees and debris still litter the forest’s edge.
Headlights illuminate her driveway, and she pulls in slowly, then locks the car door by hand, careful not to press the button on her key fob to avoid the beep that might wake her neighbors.
Her house is sad. No other way to say it.
It’s a four-room bungalow with a single toothbrush.
After Drake left (Now, that’s not fair, Theresa.
He got the opportunity of a lifetime, and you didn’t want to leave home to join him, and it wasn’t that serious anyway, at least not for him.) there hasn’t been anyone to share a bathroom with.
Which suits her fine, most of the time, but tonight, his voice has stirred up their ghosts, and she’s sorry to have lost him.
There are no pets—even in a small-town environment, it wouldn’t be fair to leave a dog or cat alone all the time—but plenty of books and music.
It is music she turns to now, turning on the record player to a scratchy old favorite, Fleetwood Mac.
While Stevie Nicks starts casting her spell on Lindsey Buckingham in “Silver Springs,” Theresa gets a beer from the fridge and parks it on the couch.
Haunting love. The story of her life. The why behind too many crimes she’s seen.
Love makes people do the most horrible things.
She doesn’t need the file to recall the crime scene.
She remembers many of the cases she’s worked, but few with the clarity of Chloe Locke’s.
Maybe it was the Christmas music playing on a loop that helped cement the imagery; she’s read that music is one of the best ways to recall a memory, along with smell.
Maybe it was the brutality of it, the casual use of the scissors Chloe was using to cut wrapping paper, that made it so clear the murder was an act of passion and opportunity, not necessarily premeditated.
The frantic screams of Eden Barrow on the 9-1-1 call; the call Theresa received from dispatch, the operator a school chum of Chloe’s sobbing through the call; rolling up to the house Andrew and Chloe lived in, the lights along the eaves perfectly symmetrical; knowing they wanted to raise a family on Main Street in the traditional three-bedroom Colonial with a big backyard.
These things didn’t happen in their town.
And yet, there she was, calling for backup from the state because this wasn’t a drunken brawl behind the Gas N Go gone wrong; this was the murder of a young woman in her home, behind a locked door, and damned if Theresa was going to be accused of screwing it up.
Meeting Drake that same night.
Yes, it’s all a cluster of good and bad, every detail easily recalled.
The one who got away. Both of them.
It takes an hour of memories to finally feel calm start to seep into her bones. She dumps out the dregs of the beer, shuts off the lights, and hopes for answers tomorrow.