Chapter 2 - The Sealed Passage
Mia gasped, taking a small step back, her tiny hands clutching her sister’s shawl.
I lowered my pistol slightly, keeping the barrel trained on the dark two-inch gap.
“Mia,” I whispered without turning around. “Go down to the kitchen. Lock the heavy wooden door behind you and don't open it for anyone except me.”
“But… but Mama—”
“I will find your mother,” I promised, my voice ironclad. “Go now.”
Mia nodded fearfully, clutching the sleeping baby tightly against her back as her small shoes hurried across the Persian rug and out into the dimly lit hallway, her footsteps fading down the marble staircase.
I waited until the kitchen door heavy latch clicked shut downstairs before turning back to the opening.
I placed my shoulder against the edge of the oak bookcase and shoved it open. The hidden doorway was roughly six feet tall and built directly into the original brick foundation of the 1890 mansion. Beyond it lay a narrow flight of steep, damp stone steps leading straight down into the darkness beneath the west wing.
I pulled a tactical flashlight from my vest pocket and clicked it on. A sharp beam of white light cut through the thick dust floating in the air.
“Who’s down there?” I demanded, stepping over the threshold onto the stone landing.
No answer.
Only the sound of rapid, terrified breathing coming from the bottom of the stairs.
I descended carefully, my boots clicking against the wet granite steps. The air grew colder with every step down, carrying the unmistakable metallic tang of damp iron rust and fresh copper.
At the bottom of the staircase, thirty feet beneath my private study, the beam of my flashlight revealed a square chamber lined with reinforced granite blocks. In the center of the room sat a heavy iron chair secured to the floor with thick anchor bolts.
Lying on the damp floor beside the chair was a woman.
Her clothes were ragged, soaked through with sweat and dirt. Her dark hair was tangled and grey at the temples, cascading down over her shoulders. She was trembling violently against the cold stone floor, her wrists showing raw, purple marks where heavy steel shackles had recently been removed.
I stepped closer, my tactical light illuminating her face as she instinctively raised a thin, bruised hand to shield her eyes from the glare.
My heart stopped beating.
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It was Grace.
Mia’s mother. The housekeeper who had served my home for eight years with quiet, gentle dedication.
