A Voice in the Crime – Chapter 29
The Package
Three days after Felix finished the book, a package arrived at his apartment.
It was small, wrapped in brown paper, tied with string. No return address. No name. Just his address, written in a handwriting he didn’t recognize.
Felix carried it inside and set it on the kitchen table. He stared at it for a long time. The brown paper was wrinkled, as if it had been handled many times. The string was tied in a complicated knot—the kind you might use to keep something safe during a long journey.
He thought about calling Detective Rivas. He thought about calling Emmett. He thought about throwing the package in the trash without opening it, because he was tired of surprises, tired of secrets, tired of things that arrived unannounced and changed everything.
But he was Felix Greer. He was a narrator. And narrators opened packages.
He untied the string. He unfolded the brown paper. Inside was a box—wooden, old, carved with symbols he didn’t recognize. A tree, maybe, or a family crest. The same symbol from the wax seal on Ruth Reinhardt’s letter.
Felix’s hands trembled as he opened the box.
Inside, nestled on a bed of faded velvet, was a key.
Not the emergency override key—that was in police custody, evidence in a dozen different cases. This was different. Older. Smaller. Made of brass that had turned green with age. Attached to the key was a tag, yellowed and brittle, with words written in faded ink.
“Kaufmann Werkstatt – 1938”
Kaufmann Workshop. 1938. The year before the war. The year before everything changed.
Beneath the key, folded into a small square, was a letter. Felix unfolded it. The handwriting was familiar—small, cramped, urgent. Ruth Reinhardt’s handwriting.
Dear Felix,
If you’re reading this, you’ve found the key. It was hidden in my safe deposit box at the bank—the one I kept even after I retired. I told Samuel about it before I died, but I made him promise not to open the box until he was ready. I don’t know if he’s ready. I don’t know if anyone is ever ready.
The key opens a lockbox in a train station in Prague. The lockbox has been in my family’s name for eighty years. My grandfather—Klaus Reinhardt—rented it in 1939, the day before he fled Europe. He put something inside. Something he couldn’t bring himself to destroy, but couldn’t bear to keep.
I don’t know what it is. I never looked. I was afraid of what I might find.
But you’re not afraid, Felix. You’re curious. You’re brave. You’re the person I’ve been waiting for.
Go to Prague. Open the lockbox. Find whatever my grandfather left behind. And when you do, tell the world. Tell the truth. Even if it hurts.
Especially if it hurts.
— Ruth
P.S. The water stain on your ceiling. I noticed it too. Emmett told me about it. He said it was a sign. I hope he’s right.
Felix read the letter three times.
Then he sat down on his couch, the key in his hand, the letter on his lap, the water stain on the ceiling staring down at him.
Prague. A lockbox. A secret that Klaus Reinhardt had kept for eighty years.
What did you hide? Felix thought. What was so important that you couldn’t destroy it, but couldn’t bear to keep?
He pulled out his phone. He didn’t start a voice memo. He called Samuel Reinhardt.
Samuel answered on the second ring. “Felix. I was wondering when you would call.”
“Did you know about the key? The lockbox in Prague?”
A pause. “Yes.”
“Your mother told you?”
“She told me before she died. She made me promise not to open the lockbox myself. She said it was meant for someone else.”
“Me.”
“She said you would find your way to it. That you would know what to do. I didn’t understand at first. But now—now I think I do.”
“Samuel, what’s in the lockbox?”
“I don’t know. I never looked. I was afraid. Afraid of what my great-grandfather had done. Afraid of what I might find.” Samuel’s voice was thick. “But you’re not afraid, Felix. You’ve never been afraid. Not really.”
Felix looked at the key in his hand. The brass was cold against his skin.
“I’m afraid,” Felix said. “I’m always afraid. I just do things anyway.”
“That’s what courage is.”
“No. That’s what stubbornness is. Courage is something else.” Felix stood up. “I’m going to Prague.”
“I know.”
“Are you coming with me?”
Another pause. Longer this time. “I want to. But I’m not ready. Not yet. Maybe someday. But not yet.”
“Then I’ll go alone.”
“Will you tell me what you find?”
Felix looked at the letter. At Ruth’s words. Tell the world. Tell the truth. Even if it hurts.
“I’ll tell you everything,” Felix said. “I promise.”
Felix booked a flight to Prague for the next morning.
He didn’t tell anyone except Samuel. Not Priya. Not Davis. Not Emmett. Not Detective Rivas. This was something he had to do alone. Something he had to see for himself.
He packed a small bag—a few clothes, his phone, his laptop. He put the key in his pocket, where he could feel it against his thigh. He wrote a note for his mother, explaining that he was going on a trip, that he was fine, that he would call her when he landed.
Then he sat on his couch, in the dark, and looked at the water stain.
“Chapter Twenty-Nine,” he said into his phone. *”I’m going to Prague. Ruth Reinhardt left me a key—a key to a lockbox that her grandfather rented in 1939. No one has opened it in eighty-six years. No one knows what’s inside.”*
“I’m scared,” he admitted. “I’m scared of what I might find. I’m scared of what it might mean. I’m scared of the person I’ll become when I know the truth.”
“But I’m going anyway. Because that’s what narrators do. We find the story. We open the box. We tell the truth.”
“Even when it hurts.”
“Especially when it hurts.”