CHAPTER 2: THE BASEMENT
The moment Emily said those words, the entire world seemed to become unnaturally quiet.
“Daddy Jason tried to make disappear.”
I looked at the detective.
He looked at me.
Neither of us spoke.
Then Emily started screaming again.
“Don’t open it!”
The detective crouched beside the car.
“Emily, I need you to stay calm.”
“No!”
She pressed herself against the opposite door.
“You can't open the basement!”
“Why?”
Her eyes darted toward the house.
“Because he’ll know.”
The detective glanced at me.
“Who?”
Emily's lips trembled.
“Jason.”
The detective stood.
“Where is he?”
Nobody answered.
The officers had already searched the first floor.
The house was empty.
Jason was gone.
So was Sarah.
But the basement door was locked.
And according to the officer who found the backpack, there was no obvious way to open it from the outside.
I looked toward the house.
The front door stood open now.
Police officers moved through the rooms.
Flashlights swept across walls.
The family photographs Sarah and I had once proudly displayed were still hanging in the hallway.
Emily at three years old.
Emily at five.
Emily holding a birthday cake.
Emily sitting between Sarah and me on Christmas morning.
A perfect family.
A perfect lie.
I walked toward the house.
The detective grabbed my shoulder.
“You stay outside.”
“That’s my house.”
“Not anymore.”
I looked at him.
He lowered his voice.
“We don't know what's inside.”
I thought about the pool.
The black bags.
The cage.
My daughter.
“I do.”
He frowned.
“What?”
I pointed toward Emily.
“She does.”
The detective looked at her through the window.
Emily was curled into the corner of the back seat.
She looked like she was trying to disappear.
The detective sighed.
Then he turned toward the house.
“Get the basement door open.”
Two officers disappeared inside.
I stayed outside.
For the next thirty seconds, I heard nothing.
Then came a loud metallic bang.
Another.
Then silence.
Suddenly an officer ran out.
“Detective!”
“What?”
“The door is reinforced.”
“So?”
“There are locks on the inside.”
The detective stared at him.
“Inside?”
The officer nodded.
“Three of them.”
A cold sensation crawled up my spine.
“Why would anyone lock a basement from the inside?”
The officer didn't answer.
The detective looked toward me.
“Did you know about those locks?”
“No.”
“Did Sarah?”
“I don't know.”
He studied my face.
“You've owned this house before.”
“We both did.”
“And you never went into the basement?”
I shook my head.
“Sarah always kept it locked.”
“Why?”
“She said there were old pipes.”
The detective stared at the house.
“Old pipes don't need three locks.”
Then we heard something.
A sound from inside.
Three slow knocks.
Everyone froze.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
The detective raised his hand.
Every officer went silent.
The sound came again.
Knock.
Knock.
Knock.
I felt my stomach twist.
Someone was down there.
Someone was alive.
Or something wanted us to think they were.
The detective motioned for everyone to move back.
An officer approached the basement door.
“Police department! Identify yourself!”
Silence.
Then a faint voice came through the door.
“Please.”
The officer looked at the detective.
The voice came again.
“Please help me.”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
I knew that voice.
I stepped forward.
“No.”
The detective blocked me.
“What?”
“That’s Sarah.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You're sure?”
“Yes.”
Another voice came from behind the door.
“Michael?”
It was Sarah.
My wife.
The woman I had loved for twelve years.
The woman I had blamed for keeping Emily away from me.
The woman who had refused to answer my calls.
“Michael, please.”
I moved toward the basement.
“Sarah!”
“Don't let him come back.”
“Who?”
There was a pause.
Then she whispered:
“Jason.”
The detective looked at me.
“Step back.”
“But that's my wife.”
“I said step back.”
The officers began working on the locks.
The first one snapped.
The second took longer.
The third finally broke with a violent crack.
The basement door swung open.
A wave of cold air rolled up the stairs.
The smell hit us immediately.
Damp concrete.
Bleach.
And something else.
Something metallic.
Blood.
The detective raised his flashlight.
“Stay behind me.”
We descended.
One step.
Two.
Three.
The basement was almost completely dark.
A single bare bulb hung from the ceiling.
It flickered.
Then stabilized.
The walls were covered with shelves.
Boxes.
Old furniture.
Children's toys.
I stopped.
There was a pink stuffed rabbit sitting on a chair.
Emily's rabbit.
She had lost it two years ago.
Sarah told me it had been thrown away.
I walked toward it.
The detective grabbed my arm.
“Don't touch anything.”
I stared at the rabbit.
“That's hers.”
He said nothing.
Then his flashlight moved across the far wall.
There were photographs.
Dozens of them.
Maybe hundreds.
Children.
Teenagers.
Women.
Men.
Some photographs were old.
Others looked recent.
Every person was standing in front of the same gray wall.
Every photograph had a date written underneath.
My stomach dropped.
The detective approached.
“Jesus.”
He picked up one photograph.
“Look at this.”
I stepped closer.
A little boy.
Maybe eight years old.
Date: 2019.
Another.
A teenage girl.
Another.
A man in his thirties.
Another.
A woman.
Then I saw one that made my knees nearly collapse.
Emily.
She was standing against the gray wall.
The photograph was dated six months earlier.
She was wearing the same yellow sweater she had worn when I took her to the zoo.
But she wasn't smiling.
Someone had written a number beneath her photograph.
17.
I turned toward the detective.
“What does seventeen mean?”
He didn't answer.
Then I noticed something else.
There were seventeen photographs on the wall.
The first sixteen had red marks across their faces.
Emily's did not.
Yet.
I stepped closer.
“Who are these people?”
The detective was examining the wall.
“I don't know.”
A sound came from the other side of the basement.
A faint scraping.
We turned.
“Sarah?”
No answer.
The detective raised his weapon.
“Police!”
Nothing.
Then something moved behind a stack of boxes.
Two officers rushed forward.
They pulled the boxes aside.
And there she was.
Sarah.
She was sitting on the floor.
Her hands were tied.
Her mouth had been taped.
Her face was bruised.
“Sarah!”
I moved toward her.
The detective stopped me.
“Wait.”
He checked the room.
Then he cut the restraints.
Sarah collapsed into my arms.
I held her.
She was shaking violently.
“Michael.”
“I’m here.”
“Where's Emily?”
“She's safe.”
Sarah began crying.
“I thought he killed her.”
My entire body went rigid.
“What?”
Sarah pulled away.
“Jason said he was going to kill her.”
“Why?”
She looked toward the photographs.
Then back at me.
“I tried to stop him.”
“You let him keep her in a cage!”
“I didn't have a choice!”
“You're her mother!”
“I KNOW!”
Her scream echoed through the basement.
Then she whispered:
“He had something on me.”
“What?”
She looked at the detective.
“He knew about the accident.”
I frowned.
“What accident?”
Sarah closed her eyes.
“The night Emily was born.”
I stared at her.
“What happened that night?”
She didn't answer.
The detective noticed something on the floor.
A small metal box.
He picked it up.
It had a combination lock.
Sarah immediately panicked.
“No.”
“What?”
“Don't open that.”
The detective looked at her.
“Why?”
“Because that's what he wanted.”
“Who?”
Sarah's voice dropped.
“Jason.”
The detective placed the box on a table.
“What's inside?”
Sarah shook her head.
“I don't know.”
“You're lying.”
“No.”
She looked at me.
“I've never opened it.”
“Then how do you know it's dangerous?”
She stared at the box.
“Because every time someone asked questions about this house, Jason told them to look inside.”
The detective's expression hardened.
“Who asked?”
Sarah swallowed.
“The previous owners.”
I felt confused.
“What previous owners?”
Sarah looked at me.
Then she said something that made the room seem suddenly smaller.
“Michael... we weren't the first family to live here.”
“I know.”
“No.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“You don't understand.”
She pointed toward the photographs.
“We weren't the first family Jason brought here.”
I stared at her.
“What are you talking about?”
Sarah whispered:
“Jason didn't meet us here.”
“He was already here.”
The detective went completely still.
“Who owned this property before you?”
Sarah shook her head.
“I don't know.”
“Then how did Jason get access?”
She looked toward the ceiling.
“He said the house belonged to him.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It didn't to me either.”
She reached for my hand.
“I thought he was just lying.”
“About what?”
Her fingers tightened around mine.
“About being the owner.”
The detective suddenly turned toward the far wall.
“Wait.”
He moved closer to the photographs.
“There are more.”
He pushed aside a wooden cabinet.
Behind it was a narrow doorway.
A door I had never seen.
It was painted the same color as the wall.
Almost invisible.
The detective tried the handle.
Locked.
He looked at Sarah.
“Where does this go?”
Sarah started shaking.
“Don't open it.”
The detective pulled out his flashlight.
“Why?”
“Because that's where he kept them.”
“Kept who?”
Sarah stared at the door.
“The people who didn't cooperate.”
The room went silent.
The detective stepped back.
Then we heard something.
From behind the hidden door.
A faint sound.
Breathing.
Someone was alive in there.
The detective raised his weapon.
“Police department! Step away from the door!”
Nothing.
Then a child's voice answered.
“Is Emily here?”
I felt my blood freeze.
The detective looked at me.
I looked at Sarah.
Sarah's face had gone completely white.
The child spoke again.
“Is Emily safe?”
I stepped toward the door.
“Who are you?”
Silence.
Then:
“My name is Lily.”
Sarah began crying.
“No.”
The detective looked at her.
“You know her?”
Sarah covered her mouth.
“She was supposed to be dead.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
Sarah looked at me.
“She was one of them.”
The detective stared at the hidden door.
Then he began breaking the lock.
I stood behind him.
Waiting.
Terrified.
The lock snapped.
The door opened slowly.
Darkness waited on the other side.
Then a small hand appeared.
A little girl stepped into the light.
She was perhaps seven years old.
Her hair was shaved on one side.
Her face was covered with bruises.
Around her neck hung a silver necklace.
I recognized it immediately.
Emily had the matching one.
The girl looked at me.
Then she asked:
“Are you Emily's daddy?”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
Then whispered:
“Then you need to get her out of here.”
“Why?”
The girl looked past me.
Toward Sarah.
Her expression changed.
“She knows what happened.”
Sarah began sobbing.
The girl continued:
“Your daughter wasn't chosen because she was lying.”
I stared at her.
“Then why was she chosen?”
The girl lowered her voice.
“Because Jason found out who her real father was.”
The basement seemed to tilt beneath my feet.
I looked at Sarah.
She couldn't meet my eyes.
The girl pointed toward the metal box.
“Open that.”
The detective reached for it.
Sarah screamed.
“No!”
The girl flinched.
Then she said:
“Inside that box is the reason Emily was never supposed to survive.”
The detective entered the combination.
Click.
The lock opened.
Inside was a stack of documents.
A photograph.
And one birth certificate.
The detective unfolded it.
His eyes widened.
He slowly turned toward me.
“Mr. Carter...”
“What?”
He handed me the document.
I looked down.
The name of the father was clearly printed on the page.
It wasn't mine.
My hands began to shake.
Then I looked at Sarah.
She was crying.
And she finally said the words she had been hiding for ten years.
“Michael…”
Her voice broke.
“Emily isn't your daughter.”
Behind us, somewhere upstairs, a door slammed.
And the little girl named Lily whispered:
May you like
“Too late.”
“Jason is back.”
