Digging Up Trouble Finale: Digging Up Trouble

Part 6: Digging Up Trouble

The city was dressed in shadows as I made my way to the old railway bridge, its iron framework looming like the skeleton of a long-forgotten beast. It was the kind of place you went to disappear—a place where the city’s noise faded into the rush of the river below, dark and churning. This was where Millie had told me to meet her, where the stakes felt as high as the drop beneath our feet.

She was already there when I arrived, standing at the edge of the bridge, the wind whipping her coat around like the wings of a fallen angel. The city lights flickered behind her, reflected in the dark waters below. She turned as I approached, her face a mix of defiance and something softer—maybe fear?—hidden beneath the mask.

“Clawson,” she said, her voice barely audible above the wind and the distant clatter of trains. “You came.”

“Yeah,” I said, stopping a few feet away, the old metal groaning under my weight. “I figured we had some unfinished business.”

The river roared beneath us, the sound drowning out the city, and for a moment, it was just the two of us suspended between past mistakes and whatever came next. She looked like she belonged here, caught between light and shadow, danger and desperation.

I pulled the velvet pouch from my pocket and tossed it onto the iron railing. The jewels spilled out, catching the faint glow of the bridge lights in a way that made them look both beautiful and dangerous. 

Just like her.

“You got into the safe,” she said, her voice trembling as she stared at the jewels glinting in the light of the streetlamp.

“Yeah,” I said, stepping closer. “And a few things I didn’t expect.”

Her eyes flicked to me, something dark and dangerous lurking in them. "Such as?"

"A pistol." I didn't waste any words. "Answers."

Her eyes widened, just for a second, before her poker face slipped back into place. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t play coy, Millie.” I stepped closer. “You didn’t drag me into this mess because of some map in a safety deposit box. You were trying to cover up a crime—a crime you committed. Ten years ago, down in that basement, you murdered your uncle.”

"It wasn't me. It was Rusty." She didn’t flinch, but I could see her gears turning, calculating her next move. 

"If it was Rusty, why would he have called the tip hotline?" I'd spent the majority of my day digging up that little tidbit, but it had been worth it. It was all the proof I needed.

Sure enough, her expression darkened. I had her cornered.

“You don’t have proof.”

“I’ve got plenty.” I leaned against the railing of the old bridge. “The body buried in the basement, the gun with your name engraved on it and a smear of blood on the barrel, the jewels you stashed away like insurance. Not to mention Rusty's witness statement. And the fact your uncle has been missing for ten years. It all points back to you.”

She gave a hollow, bitter laugh that echoed in the darkness. “So what, Clawson? You think you’ve got me figured out? You’re no better than the rest of them. You wanted a piece of the pie just like everyone else.”

“Maybe I did,” I admitted. “But not like this. You used me, Millie. Tried to make me your fall guy while you cleaned up your dirty little past. And now you’ve got nowhere left to run.”

She kneeled and reached for the jewels, fingers trembling as she scooped them up. “You don’t understand, Clawson. This... this was my only way out. The only way to put it all behind me.”

I saw the desperation in her eyes, the kind that drives a badger to dig themselves into a hole so deep they can’t climb out. She clutched the jewels like they were her last lifeline, but we both knew they weren’t going to save her. Not this time.

“You’re right,” I said, stepping back. “I don’t understand. But I know one thing—you can’t bury the past forever. It has a way of clawing its way back up.”

She looked at me, her mask finally cracking, and for a moment I almost felt sorry for her. Almost. 

But then she straightened, forcing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“So what now, detective? Are you going to turn me in? Cash in your find and walk away?”

“No, Millie. I’m walking out of here, and you’re going to take a good, long look at those jewels and figure out what they’re really worth. Because from where I’m standing, they’ve cost you everything.”

A siren screamed in the distance. The cops would be here any minute to arrest Malinae Brock and solve one of the oldest cold cases in town.

I turned and headed back toward town, the weight of it all sinking in. She’d tried to dig up her past, but all she’d done was bury herself deeper. 

As I stepped off the bridge, I heard her call after me, her voice cracking. “Clawson...”

I paused but didn’t turn around. “Yeah?”

She didn’t answer right away. I could hear the faint clink of jewels being dropped back into the pouch, her last desperate grip on what little she had left. “You were never just a pawn.”

I nodded, tipping my hat. “Neither were you, Millie. But you played the wrong game.”

I left her there, alone with the jewels—all but the one diamond I'd taken as payment—and the weight of her choices. The rain had started up again, light but steady, washing the city clean—or at least giving it the illusion of something pure. The wind rustled the leaves on the trees as I pulled my collar up, ready to disappear into the night.

I didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but I’d survived one more day in a city that chewed up badgers and spit them out without a second thought. And that, for now, was enough.

Digging Up Trouble Part 5: The Lock and the Lie

Part 5: The Lock and the Lie

Morning light didn’t do the Barrow house any favors. In the harsh daylight, the ancient building looked even more like a forgotten tomb than a home—a mausoleum of secrets hidden behind faded grandeur. 

Police cars were parked haphazardly along the overgrown drive, blue and red lights flashing dully against the gray sky. Yellow crime scene tape fluttered in the breeze. 

I slipped through the crowd that had gathered—nosy neighbors, rubberneckers, and a couple of reporters sniffing around for a story. I kept my hat low and my coat pulled tight, and made my way toward the front gate, trying to blend in with the chaos. The cops were crawling all over the place, their radios crackling with chatter about evidence bags and warrants. 

It was strange. A simple break-in shouldn't warrant this much police activity. Something else must be going on.

I spotted a familiar face near the door—Detective Grayfur, an old badger with a silver stripe and a perpetual scowl. He was barking orders at a couple of rookies, pointing them toward the house like he was directing traffic.

“Clawson,” he said, barely glancing up as I approached. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Morning, Grayfur,” I said, keeping my voice light. “Just passing by. What’s the commotion?”

Grayfur sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Murder. A ten-year-old cold case, finally thawed. We got a tip last night. We thought it was a prank until we got inside.”

My stomach tightened at the thought. “Murder? In this place?” 

He nodded grimly. “Found a body in the basement. Buried deep, like someone didn’t want it found. Looks like it’s been there a while. Still got forensics in there poking around.”

I forced a casual nod, but my mind was racing. A body in the basement? No wonder the cops were here in force. Millie had been looking for her uncle’s stash, but now it looked like she was digging up something much darker.

“Any idea who the tip came from?” I asked, keeping my tone light.

“Anonymous,” Grayfur grunted, eyes narrowing. “But I don’t buy it. Whoever tipped us off knew exactly what we’d find. Somebody wanted us here.”

"Any suspects?"

Grayfur eyed me. I could tell his patience was wearing thin. We'd helped each other out for years. Not friends, exactly, but associates. But his willingness to talk would only go so far.

"One. Name's Rusty. Muscle for hire. Didn't think him the hired gun type though."

Rusty. That might explain what he'd been doing here last night. Trying to cover up any evidence that might lead the cops back to him.

I glanced at the house, my thoughts turning to Millie. She’d been cagey from the start, always one step ahead but never quite telling me the whole story. The map, the key, the safe—it had all lined up too neatly. 

And now, a body buried in the basement? Rusty as the prime suspect? The pieces were starting to paint a picture, but I couldn't quite tell which way was up and which way was down. It was more of a Picasso than a Monet.

Taking a deep breath, I put a friendly look on my face. “I know you've the place locked down, but since I'm already here... you want me to take a look? See if anything jumps out at me?”

Grayfur scowled. 

"If I don't find anything, I'll owe you one," I said quickly, before he could say no. "Been a while since I helped out an active investigation." 

"The answer is no," Grayfur grunted at me. Then he leaned in and muttered. "Don't tough anything, you hear? And stay away from the basement. Forensics still at it."

Abruptly, he strode away, hollering at one of his colleagues for an update.

Casting an eye to make sure no one was watching, I slipped under the tape and stepped back into the house’s gloomy interior. It was a hive of activity, with cops dusting for prints and taking measurements, but my focus was elsewhere. I moved quickly, keeping to the edges, and trying to look like I belonged. 

I made my way to the stairs leading up to the hidden study. No one paid me much attention; they were too busy poking through the wreckage of the past.

The study door was open, just as we’d left it. Cops were too busy with the basement and the mess downstairs to bother with this dusty little room. The safe sat in the corner, silent and waiting, like a time capsule of secrets no one was supposed to find. I reached into my pocket, claws wrapping around the cold brass of the key. Without hesitation, I slid it into the lock.

The safe opened with a reluctant creak, and inside, nestled among the dust and shadows, were two things: a small velvet pouch and a dark, polished case. I hesitated before reaching in, my heart beating slow and heavy in my chest.

I pulled out the pouch first, the fabric worn but still rich to the touch. I could feel the weight of it, heavier than I’d expected. I loosened the drawstring and peeked inside, catching the glimmer of jewels—rubies, emeralds, and a string of pearls that looked like they’d been pulled straight out of a grand heist. They were worth a fortune, no doubt about it. 

I slipped the jewels into my pocket and reached back into the safe, claws brushing against the smooth, cold surface of the case. It was simple but elegant, the kind you’d expect to hold something precious—or dangerous. As I lifted it out, I noticed a name engraved on the front: Melinae Brock. 

Millie. 

This wasn’t just any case; this was hers.

A chill crawled up my spine. I flipped open the latch and raised the lid. Inside, resting on faded velvet, was a pistol—small, unassuming, but deadly. Its barrel was scratched, and there, just near the trigger, was a faint, dried smear of blood.

It hit me like a punch to the gut. This wasn’t just about her uncle’s secrets. This was about Millie. She wasn’t here to find some lost treasure; she was here to cover up something much worse. She’d dragged me into this house of horrors to tie up loose ends, and I’d played right into her claws.

I stared at the gun, the faint scent of old oil and gunpowder filling my nose. The pieces fell into place, each one darker than the last. 

The body in the basement, the tip-off to the cops, the frantic search—it wasn’t just coincidence. Millie was cleaning up her past, and I was her unwitting accomplice.

I closed the case carefully, my paws trembling. I knew I couldn’t take it with me; it was evidence, and more than that, it was Millie’s confession without words. But the jewels—the jewels were another story. I patted the velvet pouch in my coat pocket, feeling their cold weight settle against me.

I left the room as quietly as I could, making my way back down the stairs. The cops were still combing the place, oblivious to what was hidden in that little room. Grayfur stood near the front door, chewing the end of a cigar, his brow furrowed with worry.

“What’d you find up there?” he asked, giving me a sideways glance.

“Quite a mess in the upstairs library,” I said, adjusting my hat. “Looks like a struggle. You might want to take a look.”

"Thanks, Clawson. Now git." Grayfur waited until I had slipped past him before motioning for a couple of officers to head upstairs. I watched them go from behind the crime scene tape, my pulse steadying. 

I’d seen enough to know I was in deep, but I wasn’t ready to show my hand just yet. Millie had pulled me into her mess, but I’d found something she hadn’t planned on. And now, with the jewels in my pocket and the truth in the safe, I had a decision to make.

I stepped outside, the sun breaking through the clouds, the rain finally easing. I glanced back at the estate one last time, its crumbling walls holding onto secrets that were about to spill out in a big way.

Millie’s story wasn’t finished yet, but I was no longer the pawn in her game. I had the jewels, the key, and the upper hand.

And now, it was my turn to dig up some trouble of my own.

Click here for Part 6, the finale: Digging Up Trouble!

How To Create Layered Metaphors In Fiction

I love metaphors. They’re fun, interesting, and at times, ridiculous.

They’re also an extremely useful communication tool, across most forms of communication.

As an aside, it’s important to note that not everyone understands metaphors—and that’s okay! As the communicator, it’s our responsibility to adjust our technique to the listener/reader. But, in many cases, metaphors can communicate a depth and complexity of ideas inaccessible through other communicative tools.

The best is when you are able to create layered metaphors that work on multiple levels and in a variety of ways.

What Are Layered Metaphors?

Let’s start with the basics.

A metaphor is when you compare two things that aren’t actually alike to show a shared concept or idea, but without using "like" or "as." (If you use “like” or “as,” it’s a simile.)

For example, you could say "Big Swede’s emotions were a flock of wild ducks," to help paint a vivid picture of the constant change and unpredictability of Big Swede’s emotions.

A layered metaphor is more than just a one-off comparison like, “His mind was a storm.” It’s a metaphor that builds over time, adding new meanings as the story progresses.

Side note: Big Swede is actually a duck! I don’t know if that makes this more or less of a metaphor. A duck’s emotions… are like a flock of ducks!

Think of it as a recurring symbol or motif that gains more depth every time it shows up, connecting different elements of your story.

Layered metaphors aren’t just about describing something; they’re about showing how that metaphor evolves alongside your characters, plot, or world. When done well, they can make your story feel richer and more cohesive.

For example, if you initially describe Big Swede’s emotions as “a flock of wild ducks,” and then later on, add, “The flock grew restless, scattering in every direction as the storm of doubt rolled in,” then that indicates that Big Swede’s already chaotic emotions are in upheaval.

And if you finish the story with “The ducks took flight, soaring into the peaceful, open sky,” to indicate some resolution of said emotions, then you’ve a.) given Big Swede’s emotions an arc, as well as b.) added complexity to the story with a layered metaphor.

Examples of Layered Metaphors

I hate it when posts on how-to topics don’t include examples. And not just one or two, but a bunch, to get a clear idea of what the writer is talking about.

So let’s have some examples.

I’ve structured these in three parts, but your story could refer to this metaphor repeatedly throughout the narrative. It doesn’t have to have any kind of movement or change if you don’t want, and in fact, if you’re using a flat character arc, you could easily do that by having a flat layered metaphor woven throughout your story.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself.

How about a few examples:

1. His resolve was a sturdy oak with roots that sank deep into the soil.

   1. When the wind came, the branches bent, but the tree stood strong.

   2. When the sun came, new growth sprouted.

2. Her focus was a hive of bees.

   1. As the day wore on, the bees burst into a frantic cloud.

   2. When the sun set, the swarm vanished into the night.

3. His curiosity flickered like a lamp, sometimes bright and sometimes bored.

   1. The more questions he asked, the brighter the lamp grew.

   2. The lamp had finally grown so bright, it cast light on [insert thing he’d been looking for.]

4. Their relationship was an elevator, rising steadily with every shared moment.

   1. But at times, it stalled between floors, the doors stuck shut, and no one knew how to get it moving again.

   2. Eventually, they learned to press the right buttons, guiding the elevator to new heights without fear of falling.

Okay, some of those are kind of campy, but hopefully, you get the gist.

What’s the difference between a layered metaphor and an extended metaphor?

You may have heard the term “extended metaphor.” And it might seem like a layered metaphor is, in fact, extended. So what’s the difference?

A layered metaphor is one that builds and evolves throughout the story, gaining new meanings and depth as the narrative progresses. It often reflects changes in characters, themes, or settings, with each new "layer" adding complexity to the original comparison.

For example, a metaphor that starts as a calm lake representing peace might later transform into stormy waves, symbolizing internal conflict.

An extended metaphor, on the other hand, is a single metaphor that is stretched out and elaborated on over a longer passage or even an entire story. It consistently refers back to the same core comparison, offering different facets of that one idea without necessarily changing the meaning.

For instance, an extended metaphor might describe a character’s life as a "journey" throughout the entire story, with each new chapter emphasizing the same metaphor through various aspects of travel, such as roadblocks, detours, and destinations.

In short, a layered metaphor grows and shifts meaning over time, while an extended metaphor stays focused on one comparison.

How to use layered metaphors

Layered metaphors are super versatile and can be woven into pretty much any part of your story.

Whether you’re developing characters, adding some subtext, building your world, or structuring your plot, layered metaphors can give everything a little extra depth. Let’s break it down into a few key areas where you can really make them work.

Layered Metaphors in Character Development

Characters grow and struggle throughout their narrative arc. And layered metaphors are a great way to demonstrate this shift.

For example, maybe you start with a character whose resolve is "a sturdy wall," but as things get tough, that wall starts "cracking," and by the end, it’s "crumbled to dust."

The metaphor evolves as they do, giving readers a sense of their internal journey without having to spell everything out.

It’s a great way to show rather than tell, and it helps make a character’s emotional arc feel more visual and impactful.

It’s also a great tool to reinforce unchanging elements of that character’s personality. If they are a stubborn goat, then you can use goat imagery throughout the entire story, saying things like “She butted heads” or “She really knew how to get his goat,” or “An old goat will never learn to dance.”

Certainly it can be overused, but at the right balance, it’s a great way to illustrate character and character development.

Layered Metaphors to Enhance Subtext

Metaphors are also perfect for adding some subtext to your story—those underlying emotions or tensions that you don’t want to say outright. By layering metaphors, you can hint at deeper stuff without being too obvious.

For example, maybe there’s "a glass wall" between two characters, suggesting they’re keeping things from each other. As the story goes on and their relationship gets more strained, that wall "gets thicker," and eventually, it "starts to crack."

You never have to directly say they’re drifting apart—the metaphor does that work for you.

If you want to take it further, you can use other types of barriers between other characters. Maybe they’re connected by cement or by nothing, by a thread, for example. And again, this can help do the heavy lifting of indicating the complexity of the relationship between two characters.

Layered Metaphors For Worldbuilding

When it comes to worldbuilding, especially in fantasy or sci-fi, layered metaphors can add texture and make everything feel more connected. They can help reflect the bigger themes of your world and add a sense of cohesion—or lack thereof.

Say your story takes place in a city built on a cliffside and its in the middle of a war or trying to free itself from some kind of autocratic ruler. You could describe the city as "clinging to life," and as things get more dangerous, the city could be "dangling by a thread." The metaphor doesn’t just describe the physical space, but also reflects what’s going on in the world and with the people who live there.

Alternatively, bug metaphors could be fun for a city that’s set on a cliff. Maybe you describe the city as a beetle, clinging to a rock. Or trying to take flight. Or perhaps the city is infested with corruption. Or the city is crawling with termites, eating it from the inside out.

Lotta options here.

Regardless of what you choose, layered metaphors like this can make your world feel more alive and meaningful without overloading your reader with exposition.

Layered Metaphors in Plot Structure

This might be my favorite one. Because weaving a layered metaphor throughout a plot can create a beautiful support system for structuring concepts, movement, growth, stagnancy, and any other concept you’re playing with in your story.

You can introduce a metaphor early on and allow it to grow and change as the story progresses, creating a symbolic thread that adds depth and cohesion to the narrative.

The key is to think of the metaphor as part of the plot’s backbone, something that subtly mirrors the rising tension, conflict, or resolution in your story.

Here’s how you can do it:

1. Introduce the metaphor early: Start by planting the metaphor in the beginning, even in a subtle way. For instance, let’s say your story is about a character who’s slowly losing control over their life. You could introduce the metaphor of "walking a tightrope" early on, where everything seems balanced but fragile.

2. Let the metaphor evolve with the story: As the plot progresses and the character faces more challenges, that metaphorical tightrope can start to "fray" or "sag." Or maybe they stumble and lose their balance. Remember, a tightrope isn’t just a tightrope—it’s part of a circus, there’s a net underneath, a crowd watching. Each of these elements can be utilized within the layered metaphor as the stakes rise and the story moves through its various stages. Maybe the character’s grip on the rope becomes more desperate, or the rope starts "swinging wildly" as external forces add to the chaos. The circus is your oyster.

3. Bring it to the climax: By the time you reach the story’s peak—whether it’s a confrontation, a decision, or a moment of realization—the metaphor should be fully developed. In our tightrope example, the moment of crisis could be when "the rope snaps," sending the character plunging into uncertainty. Or if the rope doesn’t snap, maybe the character loses their balance. Or they hit the net. This can mirror the plot’s turning point, where everything changes, and the character has to face the consequences of their choices or actions.

4. Resolve or complicate the metaphor in the conclusion: After the climax, the metaphor can either reach a resolution or take on a new meaning. If the character manages to regain control, you might describe them "finding solid ground" after their fall, reflecting the resolution of their journey. Alternatively, if the character’s struggles continue or evolve into something new, the metaphor could shift—maybe they’re now "climbing a cliff," a new challenge ahead of them, but with the strength to face it.

The reason I love this concept so much is because there’s so much possibility inherent in it. You can align your story with anything you want and it will affect the tone, the vibe, the style, and more.

It also gives readers something familiar to latch onto, creating a sense of progression without the need to explain every internal or external shift.

Using layered metaphors in plot structure is especially useful when you want to emphasize themes or emotional arcs without being too direct. The metaphor acts as a stand-in for more abstract concepts like control, loss, or transformation, allowing you to show rather than tell.

Plus, when a metaphor is resolved alongside the plot, it gives the reader a sense of satisfaction, like seeing all the puzzle pieces come together.

Tying it all together

Creating layered metaphors in fiction is about adding depth and complexity while keeping your readers engaged, not overwhelmed.

Whether you’re using them to shape your characters’ journeys, add hidden meaning through subtext, build a more immersive world, or even tie your plot together, layered metaphors can elevate your storytelling.

They provide a subtle, yet powerful way to give your writing texture and leave lasting impressions.

So, if you want to take your metaphors to the next level, start layering them into your characters, plot, and world. With a little practice, you’ll create metaphors that not only add richness to your story but also stick with readers long after they’ve turned the last page.

Digging Up Trouble Part 4: Claw to Claw

Part 4: Claw to Claw

Millie rushed into the library, ducking behind the desk. I followed, huddling close to her, smelling the scent of fresh pine waft from her fur. I'd never met a badger like her, but now wasn't the time to be thinking about that. 

The sound of heavy boots echoed from the hallway—a deliberate, menacing tread that sent a chill down my spine. Rusty stepped into the doorway, filling it with his bulk, eyes gleaming with the kind of anger that doesn’t stop until something’s broken.

His flashlight cast a warm glow… directly onto my tail. I stood, meeting his gaze with a bold look.

“Well, look what the rain dragged in,” Rusty sneered, twirling his crowbar as if it were an extension of his paw. “Poking around your uncle's old house, Millie? And dragging along the town's worst private eye with you? Too bad you won’t be staying long. I've got business here, and I won't have you mucking it up.”

I stepped in front of Millie, claws flexing, but my nerves were taut. Rusty wasn’t just here to scare us off—he had work to do, and he wasn't going to let anyone get in his way. Certainly not us.

“Back off, Rusty,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “You don’t want to do this.”

He laughed, a rough, gravelly sound that echoed off the walls. “Oh, but I do. I have other business here, but taking care of you will be a nice little detour.”

Millie hissed, key clenched in her paw and eyes defiant. “This doesn’t belong to you, Rusty. Whatever’s in that safe, it’s mine.”

Rusty grinned, all teeth and menace. “Guess we’ll just have to see about that.”

The air was thick with tension, like a rubber band right before it snaps. Rusty lunged, swinging the crowbar in a wide arc. I ducked, shoving Millie out of the weapon's path, and flinching as the metal whistled past my head. It smashed into the wall and sent chunks of plaster flying. I grabbed the nearest thing I could find—a rickety chair—and swung it, but Rusty was quicker. He knocked it aside like it was nothing.

“Clawson, watch out!” Millie shouted as Rusty lunged forward again. To my surprise, he lurched past me, grabbing at Millie. She skipped backward, barely evading his clutches, but the abrupt movement sent the key flying through the air. It skittered across the floor and Rusty leaped toward it, but I managed to grab his coat and yank him back, sending both of us crashing into the bookshelf.

Books rained down, and I caught a glimpse of Millie diving for the key, but Rusty was already back on his feet.

Tossing the books off me, I leaped up in a cacophony of cascading books, just as Rusty swung the crowbar toward me once more. I dodged, and twisting around, managed to land a clawed punch to his side.

Rusty barely even flinched. He shoved me hard. I stumbled into the table, sending papers and dust flying everywhere. He was back on Millie in a second, ripping the key from her grasp, but I tackled him and wrested the crowbar from his paws.

The struggle was raw and chaotic, two badgers locked in a fight that neither was willing to lose. The safe loomed behind us, a silent witness to the madness, but we were too caught up to care.

And then, just as Rusty yanked back the crowbar free and raised it high, the sound of a whistle cut through the noise, followed by the wail of sirens and the unmistakable flash of red and blue lights spilling in through the broken windows.

Rusty froze, his eyes widening in sudden panic. The police. Someone must have tipped them off, or maybe the noise was enough to draw attention. Either way, we were out of time.

“You brought the cops?” Rusty growled, shoving me back, his rage now mixed with desperation.

“Not me,” I snapped, backing away. “But I’m not sticking around to find out who did.”

Millie grabbed my arm, pulling me toward the door. “We have to go—now!”

Rusty hesitated, glancing at the safe, then at us, weighing his options. He growled in frustration, tossed the crowbar aside, and bolted down the hall. We followed, ducking through dark rooms and cluttered corridors as the sirens grew louder.

We burst out the back door, rain pelting us as we sprinted through the overgrown garden. I glanced back, catching a glimpse of Rusty disappearing into the trees as the flashing lights of police cars skidding to a halt at the front gate.

We didn’t stop until we were a couple blocks away, breathless and soaked, hiding in the shadows of an old shed that smelled like mold and neglect.

“That was too close,” she panted. Her fur was mussed and her jacket askew. “We almost had it.”

“Yeah,” I said, wiping rain from my eyes, heart still pounding. “But now it’s a crime scene. And Rusty’s not going to give up that easy.”

"And the key! I don't have it! It must still be on the floor in the library!" A dark rage simmered deep in her eyes, but she turned and stormed into the night before I could ask any questions. All I heard was her harsh voice call out, "The old railroad bridge, tomorrow night!" before she vanished into the darkness.

I slid my hand into my pocket, the adrenaline still buzzing under my skin even as the cool rain sank into my fur. My claws curled around a cold metal object in my pocket.

We were digging up trouble, all right, and the hole was only getting deeper.

But at least, I had the key.

Click here for Part 5: The Lock and the Lie!

Digging Up Trouble Part 3: Stripes & Shadows

Click here for Part 1!

Part 3: Stripes & Shadows

The Barrow estate loomed like a bad memory against the night sky, its jagged roofline cutting through the rain. Lightning flickered in the distance, illuminating the sagging walls and shattered windows for a split second before plunging everything back into darkness. It was the kind of house that didn’t just keep secrets—it swallowed them whole.

I waited near the overgrown gate, my coat soaked through and my patience wearing thin. The estate had a way of making the hair on the back of your neck stand up, like something was watching from the shadows. The wind howled through the cracks in the stone, carrying whispers of long-forgotten things. The place reeked of mildew, rot, and the faintest hint of something metallic—like the scent of old coins or dried blood.

Millie arrived quietly, slipping through the gate with the kind of grace that comes from a life spent avoiding trouble, even if she was knee-deep in it. She wore a sleek black raincoat, and despite the weather, not a single tuft of fur was out of place. She nodded a silent acknowledgment and held up the brass key we’d found at the station.

“You sure about this?” I asked, more out of habit than caution. We were well past the point of backing out.

“The key goes to something in there,” she said, eyes locked on the house as she ignored my question. “We need to figure out what. Sooner than later.”

We approached the front door, a grand, warped thing with carvings that had faded into something unrecognizable. Time and rain had tarnished the brass of the ancient doorknob to a sickly green, but it was unlocked. With a soft click, the door creaked open, and the house exhaled a breath of stale, damp air that seemed to wrap around us.

As we entered, I flicked on my old flashlight, the weak beam barely cutting through the shadows.

Inside, the hallway stretched out like the throat of some great beast, lined with peeling wallpaper and dim sconces that reflected back the weakly flickering light from my flashlight. I’d been in plenty of bad places, but this one felt alive—like every shadow held a secret just waiting to pounce.

She stepped in first, her eyes darting to the faded paintings and shattered vases that littered the floor. The kind of things you’d see in a once-proud place, now brought low by time and neglect.

“Where do we start?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

“Wherever this leads,” she said, pulling out another map. It looked the same as the one from earlier—weathered beige paper covered with hastily scrawled markings that looked vaguely like the outline of a house. The top of the paper was labeled "Barrow House."

"Find that in your uncle's safety deposit box too?" I drawled.

"Mhmm." She didn't offer any more information than that.

Of course. She was exactly the kind of badger who would withhold key information from her hired detective until the last minute. I shouldn't be so surprised.

She held it up to the light, tracing a path that led from the front hall to a room near the back of the house—a study or library, if I had to guess. “He marked this spot. Could be a hidden safe, or maybe just another piece of the puzzle.”

I narrowed my eyes at her, irritated. How many maps had her uncle left? But it was too late to back out now, and not worth picking a fight. Besides, my bank account was calling her money's name–and rent was calling mine. Not to mention, my curiosity had me itching to dig.

We moved cautiously, our footsteps muffled by ancient carpets layered with thick dust. Every creak of the floorboards felt like a warning. The walls seemed to close in, the dim light casting long, twitching shadows that danced like ghosts at the edge of our vision.

We reached the room marked on the map; its door hung half off its hinges. Inside, the remnants of an old study lay scattered—a broken desk, toppled bookshelves, papers strewn about as if someone had torn through it in a hurry. The windows were cracked, letting in just enough moonlight to make the mess look even worse.

“Looks like we weren’t the first ones here,” I muttered, nudging an overturned chair with one claw.

Millie moved to the fireplace, studying the soot-stained mantle. “Someone must have been looking for something,” she said, turning over a half-burned piece of paper. “But they didn’t find it.”

I was about to ask whether she knew this for a fact or whether it was just supposition, when a noise echoed from the hallway—a low, deliberate creak that wasn’t the wind. We both froze, like two badgers cornered in their den, and every one of my instincts screamed that we weren’t alone.

I glanced at her, and she nodded, her face set. We moved to the edge of the doorway, peering out into the darkened hall. There was a figure—a shadow slipping from room to room, searching.

“Who else knows about this place? About this treasure?” I whispered, gripping the doorframe. "Or those maps?" I sensed that if she wasn't lying about something, she had at least omitted some crucial details.

“No one!” she exclaimed with wide eyes. “But if they’re here, they’re not just sightseeing.”

We peered through the darkness, hoping to remain invisible, as the figure moved closer, each step slow and deliberate. It was a badger, big and burly, dressed in dark clothes that blended with the shadows. He carried a crowbar, his movements purposeful, like he was planning to tear the house apart one room at a time.

“That’s Rusty,” she hissed, barely audible. “He works for—”

“Yeah, I know who he works for,” I cut her off. Rusty was muscle for hire, and he didn’t do subtle. If he was here, that meant trouble was right on our heels.

We ducked back into the study, my mind racing. We had the key, but whatever it unlocked was still hidden. And now we had competition, someone who didn’t mind breaking things—or badgers—to get what he wanted.

“We need to get upstairs,” she said, voice urgent. “Whatever my uncle hid, it’s got to be here somewhere. I don't see anything in this room, but there might be one or two floors up.”

I nodded, scanning the room one last time before we slipped out and aimed toward the stairs. Rusty had vanished into a parlor a few doors down, but we still tiptoed. I desperately hoped not to run into him.

The stairs creaked under our weight, and every step felt like a countdown. The house was a maze of forgotten rooms and dead ends, and I knew Rusty wasn’t far behind, tearing through the place like a badger that had sniffed out fresh prey.

We reached the landing, pausing at a heavy wooden door that was locked, just like she’d said. It stood directly above the study, and exactly in the spot marked on the map.

Millie tried the key but it was too small for the lock, so I pulled out my lockpick set and carefully set to work while she kept watch. I found that even though I needed to hear the lock mechanism, I was instead listening for the sound of Rusty’s heavy steps.

With a final twist, the lock gave way, and the door swung open, revealing a small, hidden library that looked untouched by time or thieves. Books filled the shelves built on every wall, and a table and chairs filled the center of the room. And in this room, nestled in the back, was an old safe, its surface covered in dust but still intact.

She looked at me, hope and fear mingling in her eyes. “This has to be it.”

But before we could move, the sound of splintering wood echoed down the hall.

"I know you're here," Rusty's muffled voice growled as he stomped down the hall toward us. So much for remaining unseen.

Whatever was in that safe, it had better be worth it.

Click here for Part 4: Claw to Claw!