Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

She opens a door. We enter a wood-paneled antechamber.
From a clip-on holder attached to her belt loop, she removes a
set of keys. She unlocks another door, then we’re inside the
safe deposit box facility.
It’s a long rectangular room, lined on three sides, from
floor to ceiling, with metal boxes of various sizes. Against a
bare wall on the other side of the room are an empty wooden
table and an office chair on wheels.
The room is freezing cold, but that’s not why my teeth are
chattering.
“Box number, please?”
I dig through my purse, find the key, and read off the
numbers on the top. The teller walks toward the opposite side
of the chamber. She stops in front of one of the boxes, inserts
another key from her set, and pulls out a long wooden box
from inside.
“Take as long as you need,” she says, placing the wooden
box on the table. “When you’re finished, just hit that button,
and I’ll come back in to lock up.”
She nods at a small red button mounted on a metal plate
beside the main door. Then she leaves, taking the last of my
composure with her.
I collapse onto the chair, drop my handbag onto the floor,
and stare at the closed wooden box on the table in front of me.
I shut my eyes and take a few deep breaths.
Cash? Gold? Diamonds? What do people keep in these
secret boxes?
What did David keep?
“Only one way to find out,” I whisper.
I fit my silver key into the lock.
It takes three tries for me to get the lid open because my
hands are shaking so badly. When I finally manage it, all the
breath I’ve been holding comes out in one huge, loud gust.