Chapter 4 - The Basement DoorThe room Robert never wanted me to enter alone
That night, I refused to sleep.
The basement door was still burned into my memory.
The fingerprints.
The bruises.
The smell of hot metal and detergent.
But now there was something else.
Diane's phone.
Dad returned to the house with federal agents shortly after midnight.
The place looked different with investigators inside.
Every room was suddenly evidence.
Every chair.
Every drawer.
Every stain.
Robert wasn't there.
That worried me.
“Where is he?” I asked.
Dad didn't answer.
One of the agents found tire tracks behind the garage.
Robert had left less than an hour earlier.
The basement became the center of the investigation.
An agent lifted a floorboard beneath the stairs.
Nothing.
Another checked the furnace.
Nothing.
Then Dad noticed the wall beside the washer.
He tapped it.
Once.
Twice.
A hollow sound answered.
He looked at me.
“Did Robert ever let you clean behind this?”
I shook my head.
He removed a small panel.
Inside was a narrow cavity.
There was a phone.
Two passports.
Three stacks of cash.
And a key.
The key was old.
Brass.
Engraved with the number 17.
Dad examined it.
“Seventeen.”
“What does it open?”
He didn't know.
But the phone did.
It contained twelve messages.
All from one number.
No name.
The last message had been sent that afternoon.
YOU SHOULD HAVE LEFT HER ALONE.
The second message:
SULLIVAN KNOWS.
Then:
MOVE THE GIRL.
My stomach dropped.
“The girl?”
Nobody spoke.
Dad stared at the phone.
“Who's the girl?”
Another agent entered.
“We found a second room.”
“What?”
He pointed toward the furnace.
“There is a false wall.”
They broke it open.
Behind it was a small storage area.
Nothing unusual at first.
Boxes.
Cleaning supplies.
Old furniture.
Then I saw a child's drawing taped to the wall.
It was a picture of a house.
A woman.
A little girl.
And a black car.
My hands started shaking.
“Dad.”
He walked closer.
On the bottom of the page was a name.
MAYA.
“Who is Maya?”
No one knew.
Then the agent opened another box.
Inside was a stack of photographs.
Women.
Five of them.
The same five from Dad's old case.
And beside each photograph was a date.
My eyes moved to the last picture.
It showed a woman leaving a bus station.
Underneath it was a date from seven months ago.
And a note.
NOT FOUND.
Dad took the picture.
“That's new.”
“What does that mean?”
“The case never closed.”
I stared at him.
“You told me they disappeared years ago.”
“They did.”
“Then why are there recent records?”
Dad didn't answer.
He walked to the far wall.
There was a small metal cabinet.
He inserted the brass key marked 17.
The lock clicked.
Inside were dozens of handwritten notes.
One caught my attention.
I picked it up.
My name was on it.
ELENA SULLIVAN HALE.
Underneath:
THE DAUGHTER MUST NEVER KNOW WHY SHE WAS CHOSEN.
I looked at Dad.
“Chosen for what?”
His face had gone pale.
“Put that down.”
I didn't.
“Dad, what does this mean?”
He grabbed the note.
“Whoever wrote this knew your identity before you met Robert.”
My entire body went cold.
“You're saying my marriage wasn't an accident?”
Dad stared at the basement door.
“I think Robert was placed in your life.”
I could barely breathe.
“Why?”
Before he could answer, a sound came from upstairs.
Three knocks.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Everyone froze.
An agent raised his weapon.
Three more knocks.
Dad motioned everyone back.
He moved toward the stairs.
Then a voice drifted down.
A woman's voice.
Soft.
Terrified.
“Frank?”
Dad stopped.
“Diane?”
Silence.
Then:
“Don't trust Robert.”
Dad looked at me.
The voice came again.
May you like
“He isn't the one you should be afraid of.”
And then the lights went out.
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