Chapter 4
The heavy oak door swung open with a dry groan, releasing a gust of cold, stagnant air that smelled of wet limestone and rotting floorboards. Clara hesitated on the threshold, the yellow folder heavy in her left hand. The bruising on her face throbbed in rhythm with her racing pulse. Behind her, David looked ready to bolt down the driveway, while Martha stood firm, her expression unreadable.
"Go on," Helena urged, gesturing with a manicured hand toward the dark staircase descending into the bowels of the house. "You wanted to sell the property. You need an accurate inventory of the assets, don't you?"
Clara gripped the wooden handrail, her fingers finding a thick layer of dust. She clicked on her phone flashlight, the harsh LED beam cutting through the gloom to reveal steep, narrow steps leading down into the darkness. She took a breath, the air tasting faintly of copper and old paper, and stepped down.
"Careful on the third step," Julian called from the top, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "It tends to give way if you put too much weight on the left side."
Clara froze, her foot hovering over the exact spot he mentioned. She shifted her weight right, descending another step until her boots hit the concrete floor of the basement. The flashlight beam swept across rows of empty canning jars, rusted gardening tools, and in the far corner, a heavy iron door set directly into the foundation wall—a root cellar that had been welded shut when they were children.
Except the welds were fresh. The silver burn of a cutting torch gleamed in the flashlight beam.
"You didn't just come back for the money, Clara," a voice said from the darkness behind her.
Clara whipped around, dropping the beam. David stood at the bottom of the stairs, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling beneath his blue polo. His eyes were wide, glittering with a desperate fear she had never seen in him before.
"David? What are you doing down here?" Clara asked, her voice trembling.
"I helped them, Clara," David whispered, his voice cracking. "When Mom died... I was the one who signed the permit to weld the door shut. Because of what was inside."
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Before Clara could demand an answer, a sharp metallic click echoed from behind the welded iron door. Something inside the sealed root cellar was tapping back.
***
