Page 86 of Dreadful

“You could at least try to sound like you mean it.” I roll my eyes, scanning the empty corridor one last time before turning toward the revealed space.

I’d pictured stacks of cardboard boxes, maybe a dusty loveseat or old job equipment—tangible, explainable things.

Not this.

A dozen safes stand arranged like silent sentinels along the corrugated metal walls, each a different size and era. One gleams with a sleek electronic keypad; another is an antique monster with chipped enamel and rust bleeding along its seams. The air smells of cold concrete and aged metal.

“What the fuck?” I whisper.

Cruz steps past me into the unit, a low, disbelieving laugh escaping him as he shakes his head slowly.

I stay rooted to the concrete, staring at the safes. “What’s going on?”

“Come on, Bells.” His fingers close around mine, warm and certain, and he tugs me across the threshold.

A rechargeable work lamp perches on a metal shelf near the entrance. Cruz thumbs it on—harsh white light floods the cramped space, glinting off dull metal surfaces. Then he reaches for the rolling door.

The metal rattles downward, sealing us in. I watch the sliver of hallway light shrink to nothing before the door meets concrete with a final thud.

Silence rushes in, thick and immediate.

I listen for footsteps on the other side.

Nothing.

When I turn, Cruz is already shrugging the duffel off his shoulder onto the floor beside the nearest safe.

My gaze travels over the collection again—no two alike, more like trophies than storage. A strange museum of secrets.

“Okay.” I take a cautious step toward one of the older models, careful not to touch its cold surface. “Is this yours?”

“Nah.” He unzips the duffel and pulls out a piece of equipment I recognize from Rafe’s collection—the small gray box with the cracked corner, the one that lives in the drawer by the front door. “It’s Coco’s.”

For three full seconds I can’t speak. My mouth opens, closes, opens again. The fluorescent light overhead buzzes, and I can hear my own pulse in my ears. Part of me—the part that spent years watching jobs come together from the kitchen table—is already leaning forward, already counting the safes, already working the problem. That part of me wants to know what’s inside every single one. That part of me is practically salivating.

The other part of me is standing up and shouting that this is Coco.

Those two parts of me cancel each other out, and all that comes out is air.

I choke on absolutely nothing. “Your mom?”

“That’s usually who I mean when I say Coco.” He connects the device to the keypad, and it blinks once before settling into a steady green glow. “You ever wonder why she has her kids call her by a nickname? Because I do.”

I turn slowly and look at the safes again. A strange unease crawls up the back of my neck, cold and slow.

“Do your brothers know we’re here?”

“Nope,” he says, and he gets up with a little whistle between his teeth, tucking a screwdriver into his back pocket before moving on to the next safe like he’s checking tire pressure.

Well, fuck.

My attention settles on him again.

As far as I know, all of the Calloways have spent their entire lives inside the rules Coco built for their family. They break into places they don’t belong and take things that aren’t theirs.

But they do it together.

This feels different.