The brass key felt surprisingly light in Oona’s small hand, cool metal pressed against her sticky palm. Two years had peeled away since Julian’s hospital stay, replacing the five-year-old Oona with a more agile, six-year-old version, her mind still sharp as a freshly honed blade. Julian, now eight, moved with a quiet efficiency born of life on the fringe, his eyes scanning the shadowed alleys of the Neon Market with a practiced vigilance. Boombox, a sleek shadow, darted ahead, his single eye glinting under the dim glow of a flickering neon sign shaped like a giant, grinning clam.
“She’s at the Redfin Casino tonight,” Julian murmured, his voice a low rustle, honed to be unheard over the clamor of the twilight crowds. “Old man Grigori overheard her talking. Big game.”
Oona nodded, her short, dark hair bouncing. The Sugar-Glazed Sun-Pockets stall, now a beacon of warmth and a small fortune, had allowed her to slowly chip away at the initial debt, but Enid’s financial web was vast and tangled. The offshore binders, the radio broadcast had warned during a sudden flare of static, held the real proof of the Matriarch’s embezzlement. Julian’s brass key was their ticket into Enid’s back room—a grimy den tucked behind the neon-lit 'Current Eel' seafood shack, far from the Sun-Pocket’s sugar smell.
They slipped through a narrow service alley, the scent of brine and frying oil thick in the air. The alley opened into a small, unlit courtyard, dominated by a heavy, unmarked door. Julian produced the key. It slid into the lock with a soft click, a sound that seemed amplified in the sudden stillness. He twisted the knob. The door groaned inward, revealing a cavernous darkness that smelled of stale cigar smoke and old paper.
“Ready?” Julian asked under his breath, fingers resting on her shoulder. Oona gave a firm nod. Boombox, ever fearless, slipped past their legs, vanishing into the gloom.
The room was a disaster. Piles of yellowed invoices teetered on a scarred oak desk. Empty coffee cups and crumpled betting slips littered the floor. A single, dusty lamp cast a weak pool of light over a towering stack of file cabinets. From the back room, a low murmur of voices drifted, punctuated by the rattle of poker chips and gruff laughter. The syndicate, Oona realized, was holding court.
“The books,” Oona whispered, her gaze sweeping the floorboards. “They have to be here.”
Julian started on the file cabinets, his slender fingers deftly navigating the rusty handles. Oona, too small to reach the higher drawers, began sifting through the desk, pulling out loose papers, old receipts, and a surprisingly heavy, ornate humidor. Boombox, meanwhile, was exploring the dark corners, a black blur against the shadows. He nudged a stack of old newspapers, then sniffed at the base of a tall, mahogany display case. His tail gave a happy thump against the wood. Too happy.
With a sudden thud, the humidor slipped from Oona's small fingers, bouncing across the floor. It hit with a resounding thud, its heavy brass lid flying open. A handful of thick, dark cigars spilled across the dusty linoleum, rolling towards the back room where the poker game was in full swing. The laughter died. The rattle of chips ceased. A heavy silence descended.
“What in the name of the deep sea was that?” a gruff voice rumbled from beyond the half-closed door, followed by a scrape of a chair. Heavy footsteps approached. Oona’s breath caught in her throat. She glanced at Julian, his pale jaw locked tight. Boombox, frozen mid-sniff, looked at her, his single eye reflecting the dim light.
Panic flared, hot and sharp. Oona’s adult mind raced, sifting through options. Confrontation was impossible. Hiding was temporary. She needed to scare him away. Fast. Her gaze fell on a discarded white sheet, likely for covering furniture. An idea, half-formed and absurd, sparked.
“Psst, Julian,” she hissed, grabbing the sheet and throwing it over her small frame. “Make a spooky noise.”
Julian, bewildered but trusting, let out a shaky, high-pitched moan. Oona, meanwhile, began to sob, her tiny body shaking under the sheet. Not just any sob, but a slow, drawn-out, utterly mournful wail, like a child lost in a graveyard. Her CEO experience hadn’t covered ghost impersonation, but she’d seen enough horror movies to know the drill. She made her voice crack, high and thin, mimicking the sound of a weeping specter.
The footsteps stopped just outside the door. A long pause. Then, a low, nervous chuckle. “Just the wind, boys,” the voice said, though it sounded less convinced now. “Or maybe ol’ Grimsby’s ghost. Still haunting this place after he lost his arm to a cuttlefish in here.”
Oona redoubled her efforts, adding a soft, desperate whisper, “My… my dolly… where’s my dolly?” Her voice wavered, dripping with a manufactured sorrow that would chill any superstitious Port Oram local. Julian, catching on, added another low moan, this one deeper, more resonant.
“Bloody barnacles!” the voice swore, now laced with genuine fear. “Did you hear that? Grimsby never had a dolly! Get back in there, you blubbering fool!” A scramble of footsteps, quick and heavy, retreated from the door. Gambling noises resumed, accompanied by muttering and the hurried scrape of cards. The threat had passed. For now.
Oona pulled off the sheet, her face flushed, a tiny bead of sweat trickling down her temple. “That was close,” Julian breathed, still a little pale. Boombox nudged her leg, as if offering congratulations. “Okay, the records. Think, Oona, where would Enid hide something so important?”
They systematically searched the room. Under the desk, behind loose floorboards, even inside a broken barometer. Nothing. Oona’s hope began to wane, a cold knot forming in her stomach. Two years, and still so far from freedom. She circled the large, mahogany display case that Boombox had sniffed earlier, running her fingers along its dusty surface. It seemed sturdy, built into the wall, entirely out of place amidst the littered floor.
She noticed a faint seam running along the back panel, almost invisible against the dark wood. Her adult mind, trained to spot discrepancies, recognized it instantly. A false back. Her heart gave a sudden thump. “Julian! Here!”
He rushed over, his eyes lighting up. Together, they pried at the seam. It was stiff, but with a concerted effort, the panel creaked inward, revealing a shallow cavity. Inside, neatly stacked, were several thick, leather-bound books. The hidden account folios. Oona reached in, her fingers trembling as she pulled out the top one. The heavy, gold-embossed lettering on the cover read: “Carlow Holdings – Port Oram Acquisitions & Investments.” This was it. The proof. The key to everything.
Julian peered over her shoulder, his face alight with triumph. But as he looked past her, towards the half-closed door leading to the poker game, his expression slowly crumbled. The triumph drained away, replaced by a pure, unadulterated horror that twisted his small features. His stare locked onto the sliver of yellow light.
“Julian?” Oona asked, her voice laced with concern. “What is it?”
He didn’t answer. He simply froze, his body rigid, a small whimper escaping his lips. He pointed a trembling finger towards the sliver of light from the back room. Oona followed his gaze. Through the narrow gap, she could just make out a hulking silhouette, its broad shoulders hunched over a card table. A voice, rough and familiar, boomed with laughter. It was the same voice that had demanded a 'hospitality loan' at the hospital, the same man who had pushed Julian under the sign.
Julian let out a ragged, paper-dry gasp. “It’s… it’s him. My… my Da.”
Cold air draft stirred the carpet. Just then, a distinct click echoed from the main entrance. The exterior door handle began to jiggle. A cold, imperious voice, unmistakable in its chilling resonance, sliced through the hall outside. “I trust you boys are keeping the place tidy? I’ve had quite enough of your squalor for one week.”
Enid.