Chapter 4 - The steel door opened three inches.Then stopped.
The emergency lights from the police vehicle outside cast a faint blue glow through the windows.
I grabbed Lily and moved behind the officers.
One of them raised his flashlight.
The beam disappeared into darkness.
“Claire?”
No answer.
He moved closer.
Then something fell inside the room.
A metal tray.
It hit the concrete floor with a crash.
The officer stepped through.
“Police! Identify yourself!”
Nothing.
He disappeared behind the door.
Five seconds.
Ten.
Then he shouted:
“There's no one here.”
I stepped forward.
“What?”
He turned.
The room behind the steel door was small.
Maybe eight feet deep.
A narrow bed.
A rusted sink.
Chains attached to the wall.
An old camera mounted in one corner.
But no Claire.
No man.
Nobody.
I stared.
“No.”
The officer pointed to the floor.
There was a blanket.
Still warm.
And beside it was a mug.
Half full.
“Someone was here,” I said.
The specialist entered.
“There's another exit.”
He pointed to the far wall.
A narrow maintenance tunnel disappeared into darkness.
My stomach turned.
“Find it.”
The officers followed the tunnel.
I stayed with Lily.
Then I saw something on the bed.
A silver necklace.
Claire's necklace.
I picked it up.
It still carried her perfume.
She had been there.
Recently.
Very recently.
The officer returned.
“No one in the tunnel.”
“How?”
“There’s a second door at the other end. It opens to an alley.”
I felt dizzy.
Eighteen months.
She had been imprisoned inside my house.
And somehow someone had just removed her.
Or she had escaped.
Either possibility terrified me.
The specialist examined the room.
“Sir.”
“What?”
He pointed beneath the bed.
There was a second notebook.
This one was thicker.
I opened it.
The first page contained one sentence.
If Daniel finds me, everything collapses.
The next pages were filled with dates.
I read them.
Three months before Claire disappeared.
Two months.
Six weeks.
Five days.
Every entry ended with the same phrase:
He still doesn't know.
I turned the page.
My breath caught.
There was a drawing.
A floor plan of our house.
Rooms.
Hallways.
Basement.
Garage.
Storage room.
Behind the kitchen was another section I had never seen.
A hidden staircase.
I looked at the officer.
“This house has another floor.”
He shook his head.
“No.”
I showed him the drawing.
He frowned.
“Old construction?”
“My grandfather renovated this place.”
“When?”
“Before I was born.”
The officer examined the plan.
Then noticed a handwritten note.
ROOM TWO IS BELOW THE KITCHEN.
A cold wave moved through me.
“Room two?”
I looked at the steel chamber.
“If that's room two…”
“Then there was a room one,” the officer said.
I remembered the message scratched into the door.
DON'T TRUST HER.
Then I remembered Vanessa.
I pulled out my phone.
No signal.
The power was still down.
One officer went to the front door.
He returned moments later.
“Your car is gone.”
“What?”
“Vanessa took it.”
I stared at him.
“She stole my car?”
He nodded.
Then his radio crackled.
“Unit three, we have an abandoned vehicle two miles from the residence.”
My phone suddenly vibrated.
A message appeared.
Unknown number.
You should have left the wall alone.
Another message arrived.
A photograph.
My kitchen.
Taken from inside my house.
Taken moments ago.
Someone was still inside.
I looked at the officers.
“Search the house.”
Before they could move, a soft sound came from upstairs.
A child's laughter.
Lily grabbed my hand.
“Dad…”
“What?”
She whispered:
“That’s not a nice person.”
We all looked toward the staircase.
A shadow passed across the landing.
The officers raised their weapons.
“Police!”
No response.
Then the shadow moved again.
This time toward Lily's bedroom.
I ran.
I reached the room first.
The window was open.
Curtains moved in the night wind.
Nobody was there.
But Lily's bed had been disturbed.
And on her pillow was a note.
My daughter picked it up before I could stop her.
She read the words aloud.
“Mom said you would find the wall.”
I snatched the note.
May you like
There was another sentence beneath it.
She never said what would happen after you did.
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