Chapter 1: The Fretters

Locke Marie Smyth loved her name. It was one of four things her father had given her. The other three were her bright turtle-green eyes, a dragonfly lighter, and the ability to pick a lock. Her mother had given her her long curly blonde hair, her love of all things artistic, and her unbridled curiosity. She cherished these gifts from her parents as her parents had gone missing nearly four months earlier.

Locke was not a perfect child. Locke did not always like her parents. A few times she had even said she hated them. Nevertheless, she did love them. And now, she could only remember the things about them she did love: how they read to her even once she was old enough to devour books on her own, the fun stories they told (and all the boring ones too), how they eagerly listened to her own stories, how they always believed her when most other adults would not, how they pretended to like what she liked and hate what she hated, how they trusted her to do things on her own, and how they were always there for her when she needed them. But, now they were gone.

The situation at school was bad. At first, Locke’s friends and classmates treated her as though she was fragile and might break if they said or did the wrong thing around her. Then, Locke noticed the teachers quit calling on her in class, afraid that they might upset her. Eventually, everyone avoided the possibly awkward situation of talking to her by avoiding her completely. Locke didn’t necessarily discourage this. Alone felt better. Or at least it felt like it should feel better.

But, the situation at home was worse. As Locke’s parents had no living relatives, Locke was forced to live with foster guardians. The Fretters, her guardians, were…well….she was an accountant and he was an engineer. They had two yippy little dogs which they insisted on dressing up, and Locke despised the lot of them. Even at twelve years old, Locke realized that the Fretters had brought her into their home as something of a practice child. After a week, she realized that they were not the paternal type except to their toy Chihuahua, Mini, and their teacup Terrier, Brutus.

Also, it was hard to feel like part of the family when everything was locked up so tightly—even the fridge! Well, unbeknownst to them, the Fretters had brought someone into their house who had little difficulty getting past locks.

The first day Locke found herself at their over-decorated house alone, she went exploring—unbridled curiosity and all. It took her about fourteen seconds to get into the locked fridge. Locke was not a bad child, merely an inquisitive and hungry one. She snatched a few strawberries and relocked the refrigerator. After this, she made her way into the Fretters’ study using one of her bump keys.

Their study was fairly normal. There was a desk covered in letters and bills; a bookshelf stuffed with unopened engineering tomes and a series of “exciting” books on tax codes; and a wall covered with framed degrees, certificates, and honors. But, the safe under the desk caught Locke’s attention.

Now, Locke could pick a pin tumbler lock using a toothpick clenched between her teeth, but cracking a safe took finesse, patience, and time. She only had the first one. She could honestly care less what was in this safe. Knowing the Fretters, Locke figured it was probably a bronzed dog bowl and their senses of humor. Locke was much more interested in just cracking it.

She heard the sound of the garage door opening through the house and left the room, locking it behind her. The safe would have to wait. She went to the room they let her borrow and opened one of her school books. Mr. Fretter walked into the house and went straight to his study without even acknowledging Locke. Mrs. Fretter arrived fifteen minutes later with the dogs in tow and went to the living room to turn on the television to a financial news channel. Two hours from then, Mrs. Fretter would order Italian food, and her and Mr. Fretter would be shocked when Locke came down to join them as they had forgotten about her through the course of the day. She would eat the small amount of food they were willing to scrape off their own plates, and, after dinner, they would all go to their rooms.

Locke could always hear the Fretters talking in their bedroom through the air vent in her room. She had learned to ignore the vibrating voices trickling through the vents, though. But, try as she might, it was hard to ignore Mr. Fretter referring to her as “The Burden” or Mrs. Fretter consoling him by calling Locke “The Tax Deduction”.

One silver lining did exist. The Fretters lived only seven blocks from Locke’s old house. She found herself at her old house at least once a week and today was one of the days she found herself looking up at the two-story contemporary house on Spark Street.

She felt a rush of cool evening autumn air and zipped her hooded jacket up more tightly. Locke felt the brisk wind play about her ankles and at the bottom of her long board shorts. She jogged up the walkway. A new family had moved in two months ago, but Locke knew the Stitches (as the mailbox mounted next to the front door advertised) would not be home for another hour or so. Furthermore, Locke had heard that their young son was at some sort of boarding school or military school so would not be home either. Locke quickly raked the lock before any of her old neighbors could notice her. She slid inside and lithely closed the door.

She walked through the foyer where a half dozen of her mother’s loud and colorful paintings had hung. Six large, black and white framed photographs now lined either side of the entryway. Though the photographs were stunning, they seemed cold. Locke left the foyer and made her way through the house.
She stared at the floor as she walked past the living room, doing her best to suppress all the happy memories that would surely bring tears. She made her way to her father’s old study and flipped on the light.

Locke had always loved this room. She felt lighter, stronger, and a bit more whimsical in this room. She would look at her father’s globe while he worked and imagine herself in one of the strange-sounding places.

The study now had a stainless steel desk with more black and white photographs on the wall. Her father would sit at his mahogany desk and puff on his meerschaum pipe while he paid bills. At Locke’s request, he had quit smoking only a few months before he and Locke’s mother disappeared. He had given Locke his dragonfly lighter as a sign of his commitment. Locke loved this room now because it still faintly reeked of stale pipe smoke, which reminded her of him. Locke smiled then turned to leave the room.

As Locke exited the room, she flipped the light switch. She stopped. She returned to the switch and flipped it back and forth. She definitely heard something. She had never noticed it before, but there it was. Locke put her safe-cracking ear up to the switch and flipped it a couple more times. There was a muffled tinny sound that only a lock-breaker could hear. She inspected the switch. It seemed normal. She pulled out her lock-picking kit and used the rake to loosen the screws in the faceplate. After she removed the screws, the switch plate did not come loose, but rather swung to the side on hidden hinges like a book opening. Behind the faceplate, Locke did not find wires but an older light switch with a metal plate upon which was engraved a very ornate letter U.