Chapter 11
Clara’s breath caught in her throat as she stared down into the subterranean dark. That white t-shirt—it was identical to the one Tracey had been wearing just twenty minutes ago when they ran across the grass together.
"Tracey?" Clara whispered, taking an involuntary step toward the open iron hatch before Marshal Davies’s heavy hand gripped her shoulder, yanking her back with terrifying force.
"Stay away from that drop," Davies ordered, her voice sharp and urgent. "That shaft connects directly to the old flood-control tunnels. If someone went down there after the EMP went off, they're walking into a deathtracker."
Investigator Vance rushed over, shining a high-powered tactical flashlight down into the shaft. The beam cut through the damp subterranean mist, illuminating rusted pipes, tangled cables of melted fiber optics, and at the very bottom, right beside the muddy white t-shirt, a small, silver locket resting on the concrete floor.
Clara recognized that locket instantly. It was the one Arthur’s late wife had given Tracey on her fourth birthday—a tiny heart-shaped piece of silver that Tracey never, under any circumstances, took off.
"Arthur!" Clara screamed, spinning around and marching furiously toward the police cruiser where the old man sat handcuffed in the back. She slammed her palm against the reinforced window. "Where is she? What did you do with Tracey?"
The officer in the driver’s seat hesitated, then cracked the rear window two inches at a nod from Davies. Arthur looked out at Clara, his expression no longer smug, but heavy with a profound, crushing sorrow.
"She wasn't supposed to be part of this, Clara," Arthur rasped, his voice cracking. "The vault wasn't just holding financial records. It was a fallout shelter built during the cold war, redesigned as a secure drop point for the city’s emergency override keys."
"You traded her for the server wipe?" Clara accused, tears streaming down her face as her voice rose in hysterical disbelief. "You used your own granddaughter as a distraction while someone wiped the drives?"
"No," a cold, unfamiliar voice interrupted from behind them.
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Clara spun around. A tall man in a plain grey suit, carrying a heavy diplomatic briefcase, had just stepped out from behind the pavilion pillar. He wasn't wearing a badge, but the two federal agents flanking him immediately snapped to attention and saluted.
"She didn't fall down the shaft, Mrs. Hayes," the man said smoothly, adjusting his tie as he approached the edge of the open hatch. "She opened it from the inside."
