Page 187 of Brutal

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Like Samson himself.

The keyhole—or what wants to pass as a keyhole—isn’t shaped correctly either.

Too narrow in some places. Too wide in others.

My pulse quickens. I lift the beam of my phone and study it more closely.

Then I raise the ring.

Not toward the opening. Not yet.

Just beside it.

Comparing.

I stroke the notches on the inner band. Then I return to the asymmetrical shape of the lock’s mechanism.

Damn…

It isn’t exact, but it’s close enough to be deliberate. Notches. Angles. Uneven teeth.

The hem of Samson’s shirt brushes my bare thighs as I lean in. The lock smells faintly metallic. The ring is cool in my hand, almost cold.

I try the most obvious thing first. I angle the ring as if it might slide into the opening.

It doesn’t.

It isn’t that kind of key.

I draw back, frowning.

Then I look again.

This time I notice the shallow groove around the faceplate. Not a slot, exactly. More like a guided channel. Not for insertion. For alignment.

My heart begins to beat harder.

I bring the ring closer to the lock again. Rotate it. Test one edge. Then another.

Nothing.

I adjust. Try a different angle.

Still nothing.

But something about the resistance feels intentional. Like I haven’t found the answer, but if I were playing that child’s game, someone would tell me I’m getting warmer.

Do it, a dark little part of me whispers.

Find out.

You came here for truth.

I shift the ring again and press lightly against the groove.

This time there is the faintest sensation under my fingertips—not a click, not motion exactly, but the awareness of a mechanism that could respond if I knew how to ask it properly.

I freeze.

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