I move slowly—
Faster! Walk faster!
—as I approach it. Tall double doors for an entrance. On the ground, at my feet, a long chain with a broken lock.
Somebody unlocked this door recently.
He’s here. Aiden is here.
I put my flashlight in my mouth and raise my gun. With my free hand, I pull on the door handle and yank it open.
In one motion, I drop to a knee, remove the flashlight from my mouth, and click it on, sweeping it over the space inside.
Open air. Two stories tall. Big, yes, but empty.
Empty.
Stains on the concrete floor from automobiles, once upon a time. A rack on the wall for tools, though none are present right now. A carpenter’s desk, too, a wooden top with steel legs, with an old saw and a vise on top.
Empty. But a different kind of empty.
I shine my light along the floor by the desk. There are circles on the floor, dust markings, from where the legs of the tool desk rested not long ago.
“Someone moved that desk,” I mumble to myself. Recently. Very recently.
Why move it?
I shine the light along the floor.
In the area where the desk once stood, before being moved, there is a break in the concrete. An outline. A square. Lying on top of it, a short length of rope.
I squat down for a closer look. Same color paint, but the surface of the square looks different.
I try to pick up the rope, but it’s stuck to the floor, attached somehow.
And the surface is … wood, not concrete.
A wooden square with a rope attached to it.
I grab the rope and, this time, pull on it hard.
The wooden square jars loose.
“What the hell …”
I pull harder, and the piece of wood pops upward.
A burst of cool air escaping from beneath it.
“A hidden door,” I whisper.
There’s something underneath this floor.
111
MY GUN POISED, I pull the trapdoor fully open. I turn on the flashlight, dust particles floating in the beam, aiming it down into the darkness below.
A ladder, a wooden ladder, leading down several steps to a floor.
My lungs thirsting for air, my head spinning. A small tremor spreads through my limbs, immediately turning into a full-scale tremble, my hand shaking so hard I can hardly hold my gun. I don’t dare cock the revolver’s hammer, putting the gun in ready position, for fear I’ll start shooting, maybe even hitting myself.
The ladder so wobbly
I don’t know how far down it will go
The boy yelling at me, “Move! Move!”
I drop to my knees and suck in air, desperately seeking breath while my lungs seize up.
I was here. I was in this carriage house. I went down this ladder.
Sweat stinging my eyes, my shirt stuck to my back, my vision spotty, my heart pounding so fiercely I can hardly move.
“Move, Murphy,” I whisper. “Move.”
I tuck the gun into the back of my pants. I fish around the open space with one leg until my foot finds a rung on the ladder.
I move slowly, hoping to minimize the noise, praying I don’t lose my grip, the ladder itself quaking along with my hands, my arms and legs.
Darker, the lower I climb.
Colder.
White noise filling my ears, bits and pieces of memories, the sounds of the boy’s voice taunting me— Move! Keep moving, stupid girl
—my body shivering so violently, my feet hitting the floor, something hard like marble. I remove my gun and aim it in all directions, spinning, somehow keeping my balance, as I shine the flashlight all around.
A tunnel. I’m at one end. The other end, I can’t see. High ceilings, width sufficient for two, maybe three people to stand side-by-side.
The lightning bolts between my eyes, the fragments coming back.
Wearing sandals and the bathing suit Mommy just bought me, a Lion King T-shirt over it. So hard to walk in these sandals, especially when the boy pushes me, afraid that if I fall he’ll get mad, afraid of what he might do to me— Stepping forward gingerly, every forward advance an effort, half blind from the sweat burning my eyes, electricity filling my body— I don’t understand what is happening, why this boy is making me go down here, where are we going, where are we going— The beam of my flashlight dancing along the floor, the walls, the ceiling, and then I see it.
A wall. The end of the tunnel.
A doorknob.
I tuck the flashlight under my left arm, my left hand holding a wobbly gun. With my right, I reach for the knob.
I steel myself. “You can do this,” I tell myself.
I turn the knob slowly, then whip the door open.
112
I POINT THE gun inside the room, my pulse pounding against my temples.