Chapter 5 - The BasementThe police had sealed off the house by the time we arrived.
Yellow tape stretched across the front porch.
A deputy stopped us.
“This property is part of an active investigation.”
Ben stepped forward.
“I own the property.”
The deputy looked at him.
“Not tonight.”
“What?”
“Your deed is being reviewed.”
Ben turned toward me.
“This is your fault.”
“No.”
“You knew.”
“I didn't.”
Christopher arrived ten minutes later.
He showed the deputy his credentials.
After a brief conversation, we were allowed onto the property.
The house looked different.
Smaller.
Darker.
Like it knew something.
We entered through the kitchen.
A forensic team was working downstairs.
My mother refused to go.
I went alone.
The basement smelled like dust and old wood.
There was blood on the concrete floor near the furnace.
Not much.
But enough.
A detective pointed to it.
“Your grandmother spent a lot of time down here?”
“No.”
“Any idea what this was used for?”
“Storage.”
He looked at me.
“You sure?”
“No.”
He studied me.
“You're Ryan Miller?”
“Yes.”
“I have questions.”
“About?”
“Your grandmother.”
I glanced toward the blood.
“Does that mean you think she was murdered?”
“We don't know yet.”
“Who reported it?”
He shook his head.
“Anonymous.”
“Again?”
“Yes.”
“What do you mean?”
“This isn't the first anonymous report.”
My stomach dropped.
“What else?”
He handed me a photograph.
It showed Grandma lying in bed.
Alive.
The timestamp was from two days before she died.
On the bedside table was a glass.
Something dark at the bottom.
“What's this?”
“Toxicology concern.”
I stared at the photo.
“Who took it?”
“We don't know.”
The detective lowered his voice.
“But whoever did knew your grandmother was dying.”
I looked around the basement.
Then I noticed something.
A small wooden door behind the shelves.
“What's that?”
The detective followed my gaze.
“Was that there before?”
“I think so.”
We moved the shelves.
Behind them was a steel door.
No handle.
Only a keyhole.
My hand went cold.
I pulled out the brass key Grandma had left me.
It fit.
The detective looked at me.
“Where did you get that?”
“My grandmother.”
I turned the key.
Click.
The door opened.
Inside was a narrow room.
Shelves.
Boxes.
Documents.
And one wooden chest in the center.
The detective stepped closer.
“What the hell?”
My mother appeared behind us.
She saw the room.
And screamed.
“No.”
I turned.
“Mom?”
She stared at the chest.
“I haven't seen that in twenty-two years.”
“What is it?”
She backed away.
“Your father.”
“Dad?”
She shook her head.
“No.”
Then she pointed at the chest.
“That belonged to Claire.”
The room fell silent.
I moved closer.
On the top of the chest was a name.
CLAIRE MILLER.
And beneath it:
OPEN ONLY AFTER LINDA CONFESSES.
My mother started crying.
“Ryan…”
I looked at her.
“Confesses what?”
She couldn't answer.
The detective stepped between us.
“Ma'am, you're going to have to come with me.”
“Why?”
“Because the blood downstairs belongs to your sister.”
Mom froze.
“What?”
He held up a test result.
“We ran the sample.”
“That's impossible.”
“Why?”
“Claire died eleven years ago.”
May you like
The detective looked at me.
“Then we have a much bigger problem.”
