The key didn't turn.
Elowen had expected resistance—the estate had been sealed for six weeks, and iron rusted in mountain humidity faster than most people understood—but this was something more specific than rust. The deadbolt held as though it had been welded, and when she pressed her weight into the bow of the key, the whole door shuddered against its frame. Not a rattle. A pulse. Low and rhythmic, moving up through the iron, through her palm, into the bones of her wrist.
*Deferred maintenance,* she decided. The house had been built in 1887, the door hardware original or close to it, and no one had oiled the mechanism in years. Possibly decades. The vibration was likely the bolt cylinder torquing against a warped plate, the whole assembly under uneven load. She filed it under *locksmith, priority low* and leaned in again.
Vale Mansion stood at the edge of Bellweather Hollow, three miles above the town proper, at the end of a gravel lane the county had stopped maintaining sometime in the 1990s. Elowen had grown up understanding the house as a weight—not a home, exactly, but a responsibility her grandmother carried the way other women carried grief. Now it was hers. The estate, the contents, the debts, and whatever her grandmother Mara had left unfinished inside it. The lawyer had been very precise about the inventory. He had been considerably less precise about the circumstances of the death.
