Chapter 11
The sound of the deadbolt sliding into place was drowned out almost immediately by the steady, heavy roar of rainwater gushing through the exterior gutters and downspouts directly outside the basement wall. Clara stared at the closed door for a fraction of a second before turning back to the narrow crawlspace behind the water heater.
"Help me move these blocks!" Clara ordered, her voice cutting through the panic threatening to paralyze her. She grabbed a third cinder block, her fingers scraping against the rough, abrasive mortar.
David finally stirred, dragging himself across the concrete floor on his hands and knees. Without a word, he wedged his shoulder against the stack, using his weight to pry the remaining blocks loose. With a dull thud, the final obstruction gave way, revealing a dark, square tunnel lined with corrugated metal pipe that sloped downward into the pitch black.
"It’s a storm drain connection," David panted, wiping sweat and dirt from his forehead. "Beatrice was right. It leads to the municipal culvert."
"It leads outside," Clara countered, shoving the heavy yellow folder and the leather ledger securely inside the waistband of her blue trousers. "And outside is better than a locked basement."
From the dark interior of the root cellar, Beatrice’s rocking chair stopped moving. Creeak. Silence.
"Take my hand before you go, girl," the old woman’s voice whispered, sounding suddenly fragile across the dark space.
Clara hesitated, shining her phone beam toward the open door of the root cellar. Beatrice was standing just inside the threshold, her white hair framing a face carved with decades of betrayal and bitter survival. She wasn't holding a weapon, but her hand was outstretched, palm up.
"Why should I help you?" Clara asked, her voice hard. "You helped cover up a murder."
"I helped conceal their crime to keep from ending up in this exact room," Beatrice retorted sharply, taking a step forward into the dim light. "And if you leave me down here while the culvert floods, the water backing up from Elm Street will fill this entire basement to the ceiling within the hour. You won't just be leaving me—you’ll be drowning your own flesh and blood."
David backed away from the crawlspace, his eyes wide with horror as he looked down at the concrete floor. Near the base of the western wall, a thin trickle of dark, muddy water was already seeping through a hairline crack in the foundation, pooling rapidly around their boots.
The rain outside was intensifying into a full autumn storm.
"Clara," David choked out, pointing down at the spreading puddle. "She’s right. The water’s coming in through the foundation. We don't have time to argue."
Clara looked from the outstretched hand of the woman who had lied to her entire life to the dark, gaping maw of the drainage pipe. The water was already soaking through the hem of her trousers.
"Grab her other arm, David," Clara commanded, dropping to her knees and reaching into the root cellar to catch Beatrice’s bony wrist.
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As they hauled the old woman out into the main basement area, a sudden, violent crack echoed from the kitchen above—the sound of the back door being kicked open against the frame.
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