The Locksmith’s Wife
April 20, 2025
People always thought the scariest part of the job was breaking in.
But for Theo Marsh, the real danger came after—when the safe cracked open, the secrets spilled out, and someone had to decide what to do with them.
Theo wasn’t a thief, not exactly. He was a locksmith. The best in the city. When something needed opening—legally or otherwise—his phone rang.
This time, it was her.
“Mr. Marsh?” The voice on the line was velvet-wrapped steel. “I need a vault opened. It’s… complicated.”
Theo almost hung up. But curiosity was stronger than caution. It always was.
She lived in the Heights, where glass houses pretended money didn’t rot. She wore a silk robe like armor and poured whiskey at 3 p.m. like it was water.
Her name was Evelyn Crane. Mid-30s. Married to Jonas Crane, the real estate shark who owned half the skyline and all the headlines.
“My husband died last week,” she said, handing him a drink. “Car crash. Fast and fiery.”
“I’m sorry,” Theo said.
She shrugged. “He wasn’t a careful man.”
She took him to a study lined with walnut shelves and antique clocks. At the center was the safe—floor-mounted, old-school, no digital lock. Theo knelt beside it and ran his fingers across the dials.
“I haven’t seen one of these in years,” he said.
“He had it installed when we got married. Said it was for ‘the important things.’” She sipped her drink. “I never had the combination.”
He worked in silence for fifteen minutes. Then—click.
Inside the safe was a manila folder, two flash drives, and a gun.
Nothing else.
No money. No jewelry. Just secrets and a weapon.
Theo didn’t ask questions. He was paid not to.
But Evelyn looked at the folder like it might explode.
“Take what you need,” he said. “I’ll wait outside.”
She came out twenty minutes later, looking paler.
“Did you take anything?” she asked.
He blinked. “No. That’s not my game.”
“Good,” she said. “Because whoever did is next.”
The news broke the next morning.
Jonas Crane’s assistant found dead. Shot twice in a parking garage.
Theo stared at the article, coffee growing cold in his hand.
He thought of the gun in the safe.
And Evelyn’s eyes when she saw the folder.
A week passed. Then a knock at Theo’s apartment door.
Evelyn. Black dress. Dark sunglasses. Like she stepped out of a noir film.
“There’s one more safe,” she said.
He almost said no.
But again—curiosity.
This one was in a private hangar at the edge of the city. She had the keys, the codes, everything but the combination.
It wasn’t Jonas’s safe—it was hers.
“I want to know what he kept from me,” she said.
Theo cracked it in ten.
Inside: passports. Cash. A ledger full of names. And photos—grainy, dark, taken through long lenses.
Theo flipped one over.
It was of him.
Leaning over Evelyn’s vault. Hands on the dial.
She watched him read it.
“I didn’t know,” she said softly.
“That he was watching me?”
“That he thought I’d use you.”
Theo looked up. “Did you?”
Evelyn took a long breath.
“I didn’t mean to.”
That night, Theo packed a bag. He knew better than to linger in a story like this.
But before he could leave, his phone buzzed.
One new message:
“The folder is missing. I need you to get it back.”
—E
Attached was a photo: a man’s face, circled in red. One of Jonas’s old bodyguards. A man Theo had seen outside the hangar.
Theo stared at it for a long time.
Then closed the suitcase.
And grabbed his tools.
The next day, the news reported another body.
Gunshot wound. No witnesses. No prints.
Just one thing found at the scene:
A safe. Open. Empty.