“No one. I’ll go see who it—”
Before he could finish his sentence, a shadow appeared at the top of the stairs. Something came hurtling down the steps. It crashed and burst into flames as it hit the floor.
Startled, I fell off the crate, and I shielded my face against the sudden explosion. Flames shot to the beams above our heads, and the fire quickly spread to the tarps and the dry, rotted wooden steps. Within seconds the stairway was engulfed. Smoke quickly filled the room.
Keeping low to the ground, I crawled over to Mr. Butterbaugh. Unresponsive, he lay prone on the floor. I rolled him over. Blood seeped from a shallow wound on his forehead. I checked his pulse. It was faint, but there was one.
My own pulse hammered in my ears as I tried to determine how to get out of here. The stairs were a lost cause—I’d be burnt to a crisp before I reached the top. There were no windows. Our only hope was finding that release catch.
And I could use a little ghostly help as well.
“Virgil!” I yelled. A second later he was at my side, his eyes glowing in the smokiness.
Fighting back a sudden wave of pain, I said, “Please go and find Delia. Bring her here.”
With a nod, he disappeared.
Frantically, I ran my hands along the wine rack, growing more and more frustrated that I couldn’t find the latch. Pulling my shirt up over my nose and mouth, I kept searching.
Jenny Jane had moved a little closer to me, and I had to keep asking her to move back because I needed full use of both hands.
I coughed, my eyes stinging and watering, as I told myself that finding the release shouldn’t be this complicated. This was a private residence, not Fort Knox. It was then that I realized I hadn’t been checking the rear panels of the elaborate rack. As the smoke thickened, I pushed and shoved each panel until one suddenly gave way beneath my palm, swinging the very center section of the rack backward. A secret door.
Using what little energy I had left, I grabbed Mr. Butterbaugh under his armpits and dragged him through the opening. Once inside, I closed the door behind us, hoping to keep the fire at bay for as long as possible. I realized as I did so that there was no way anyone who managed to get down the stairs would find us in here. I could only hope there was another way out. Some sort of egress I hadn’t noticed on the Ezekiel plans.
Civil War houses were infamous for having escape tunnels, and I held on to the hope that this one did, too.
Plunged into darkness, I searched for a light switch and finally found one about waist-high on my right. I cut it on and realized escaping wasn’t going to be as easy as I thought. Smoke had already filtered into the space, making everything look hazy. The room appeared to be a gentleman’s study, complete with bookshelves, a large desk, and a seating area. A large area rug covered a wooden floor, and several beautiful landscape paintings hung on the wall. There was even a fireplace and for a crazy moment, I wondered if I could shimmy up the chimney . . .
Because there didn’t appear to be any other way out.
I bent to check on Mr. Butterbaugh and was dismayed to find that his pulse had weakened even further. I set his head on my lap and tried to think, but my thoughts grew fuzzy. It was becoming harder to breathe as more smoke filled the room.
Glancing around, I focused on the bookcases. If there had been a secret door leading into this room, there might be one leading out as well. I gently set Mr. Butterbaugh’s head back on the rug and stood up. My legs wobbled as I crossed the room.
As I passed the desk, I noticed a framed black-and-white photograph. It was Rupert Ezekiel, with a woman and a little boy about four or five years old.
Was this the son who’d been at war when Haywood was conceived? What had happened to the boy? Where was he now?
Taking another quick look around, I noted that the drawers of the desk were pulled out and appeared to have been rummaged through.
Someone had been looking for something.
But what?
And did he or she find it?
Keeping low, I pressed onward to the bookshelves and started looking for yet another release. I pulled books off shelves, pushed and pulled every divider. It felt like it was taking me forever just to move from one section to the next. I supposed it was. My body was giving out, weakening with every move I made.
Sagging, I rested my head on a bookshelf and closed my eyes. Suddenly, I just wanted to sleep, but behind my lids I could see Dylan’s face. My mama’s. My daddy’s. And I couldn’t give up.
Letting out a primal cry, I kept tugging and pulling. I flung books, cursed out loud.
Nothing.
Sinking to my knees, I tried pushing the baseboards and the floorboards until my eyelids drifted closed.
Suddenly, a searing pain in my head had me shooting upward and gasping. I opened my eyes to find two blue eyes peering at me not six inches from my face.
I screamed before I realized it was only Haywood.