Chapter 2 - The Red Clay Footprints
My fingers burned against the cold paper.
Sarah Vance was alive.
The death certificate was a lie.
The funeral was a lie.
The wooden box in the cemetery was empty.
For three years, Marcus and his brother had kept her locked beneath this house.
I looked down at Lily.
She was watching me with solemn, terrified eyes.
"Does your uncle come here at night?" I asked.
"He brings the medicine," Lily whispered.
"He makes Mommy sleep."
"Where does she stay?"
"Under the floor."
"There is a room behind the coal furnace."
"Daddy built a wall."
My stomach turned over.
I looked out the bedroom window.
Rain had begun to fall.
It hit the glass in heavy, violent sheets.
Down the street, a pair of headlights turned into our lane.
A black sedan pulled up beside the curb.
It was Dr. Arthur Vance's car.
He stepped out into the rain.
He carried a black leather medical bag.
He didn't walk to the front door.
He walked around the side of the house toward the storm cellar doors.
I grabbed Lily's small hand.
"We are leaving," I said.
"Right now."
"No," Lily cried quietly.
"We can't leave Mommy!"
"We need the police, Lily!"
"They won't believe you," Lily said.
She pulled a newspaper clipping from her pocket.
It was yellowed and crumpled.
It showed Marcus shaking hands with the town chief of police.
They were standing outside a charity event.
The caption called Marcus the department's largest private donor.
"Daddy gives him money," Lily said.
"The chief is Daddy's best friend."
"He came here when Mommy vanished."
"He told Daddy he was sorry for his loss."
"He didn't even look in the cellar."
I squeezed my eyes shut.
The trap was seamless.
The doctor was his brother.
The police chief was his friend.
The town saw Marcus as a grieving saint.
If I ran to the station without proof, Marcus would know instantly.
He would move Sarah.
Or worse.
A heavy thump echoed from beneath the floorboards.
It was a muffled sound.
Like a metal chair scraping against concrete.
Then a scream.
It was high and desperate, cut off in an instant.
It came from the basement.
Lily covered her ears.
"She's hurting," Lily sobbed.
"Uncle Arthur is giving her the shot."
I couldn't just stand here.
I had to get visible, undeniable evidence.
I pulled my cell phone from my pocket.
The battery icon flashed red.
Four percent remaining.
I didn't have enough power to record a long video.
I needed one clean, clear photograph.
"Lily," I said, crouching down to her level.
"Stay in this room."
"Lock the door behind me."
"Do not open it for anyone except me."
"What if Daddy comes?"
"Do not open it," I repeated firmly.
"Hold the doorknob from the inside."
She nodded, wiping her cheeks with her sleeve.
I stepped into the dark hallway.
I heard the heavy lock click behind me.
I crept down the stairs, step by step.
The house was deathly quiet except for the rain against the roof.
The basement door at the end of the hall was slightly ajar.
A sliver of yellow light cut across the wooden floorboards.
Marcus had forgotten to slide the top bolt when Arthur arrived.
My pulse thundered in my ears.
I tiptoed toward the door.
I pushed it open an inch.
The hinges groaned faintly.
I froze.
Down below, voices drifted up the concrete steps.
"She's getting weaker, Marcus," Arthur's voice said.
He sounded nervous.
Agitated.
"The dosage is too high."
"If her heart gives out, we can't explain this."
"She isn't going to die, Arthur," Marcus replied.
His voice was cold.
Calculated.
"She just needs to stay quiet until Clara finishes signing the trust documents."
I drew in a sharp breath.
The trust documents.
Last week, Marcus asked me to sign a land transfer for our property.
He said it was standard legal paperwork for newlyweds.
He said it was to protect our future children.
He was using me.
Just like he had used Sarah.
"Clara is getting suspicious," Arthur said.
"I saw the way she looked at me on Sunday."
"She's just a schoolteacher, Arthur," Marcus scoffed.
"She's soft."
"She believes whatever I tell her."
"She thinks Lily is sick."
"By next month, Clara will be handling all the household accounts."
"Her name will be on the cellar deed."
"If anything happens down here, Clara takes the blame."
A cold horror washed over me.
He wasn't just hiding his first wife.
He was framing me to be his fall person.
If Sarah died, the property records would point straight to the new wife.
To me.
I pulled out my phone.
Three percent battery.
I had to get down there.
I needed a photograph of Sarah inside that room.
I slipped through the basement door.
I descended the wooden steps one by one.
The damp air clung to my skin.
At the bottom, the basement opened into a large, clutter-filled room.
Old furniture and dusty boxes stacked high.
In the back corner stood a massive cast-iron furnace.
Behind the furnace was a heavy wooden door fitted into a newly mortared brick wall.
The door was unlocked.
It hung open a few inches.
Inside, a single hanging bulb illuminated the tiny room.
I crept toward the crack in the door.
I raised my phone camera.
Through the gap, I saw her.
Sarah Vance sat on a rusted metal cot.
Her cheeks were sunken.
Her hair was silvered and matted.
She wore a faded winter coat over a hospital gown.
Arthur was standing over her, holding a glass syringe.
Marcus stood near the door, watching with folded arms.
My hand shook as I lined up the phone camera.
I captured her face.
I captured Arthur holding the syringe.
I captured Marcus standing beside them.
The camera clicked.
The screen flashed white.
I had forgotten to turn off the flash.
The bright light illuminated the dark furnace room.
"Who's there?!" Marcus shouted.
I turned and bolted for the stairs.
"Clara!" Marcus roared.
His heavy boots pounded against the concrete behind me.
I scrambled up the wooden steps.
My foot slipped on the top step.
I fell hard, hitting my knee against the floor.
My phone slid across the hallway rug.
I reached for it, but a heavy shoe crushed down on my hand.
I cried out in pain.
Marcus stood over me.
His face was contorted in pure, venomous rage.
He kicked the phone away.
It struck the baseboard and the screen went completely black.
Dead battery.
"You couldn't just mind your own business," Marcus sneered.
Arthur rushed up the stairs behind him, panting.
"What did she see, Marcus?!" Arthur panicked.
"Did she take a picture?"
"It doesn't matter," Marcus said coldly.
He grabbed my arm and dragged me to my feet.
"Her phone is dead."
"And nobody is coming to save her."
"Marcus, please!" I screamed, struggling against his grip.
"She's the mother of your child!"
"She was a mistake," Marcus hissed.
"Just like you turned out to be."
He dragged me toward the hallway closet.
He shoved me inside and slammed the thick door shut.
I heard the heavy brass key turn in the lock.
"Marcus, open this door!" I battered my fists against the wood.
"Arthur, don't do this!"
"Keep quiet!" Marcus shouted through the door.
"Arthur, go upstairs and get Lily."
"We're moving Sarah tonight."
"What about Clara?" Arthur asked, his voice shaking.
"She stays in the closet until we're gone," Marcus said.
"Then we call Chief Miller."
"We tell him my crazy new wife broke into the basement and attacked us."
My heart stopped.
They were going to take Lily.
They were going to disappear with Sarah.
And I would be locked in this house, framed for a crime I didn't commit.
Above me, I heard heavy footsteps marching up the stairs toward Lily's room.
"Lily!" Arthur called out from the second floor.
"Open the door, sweetheart!"
I threw my weight against the closet door.
It didn't budge.
It was solid oak.
I dropped to my knees in the dark.
Despair crashed over me like a tidal wave.
My phone was dead.
The basement proof was gone.
Lily was about to be taken away forever.
Then, my hand brushed against something on the closet floor.
In the corner, near the baseboards, was a small metal lever.
It was the lower clean-out hatch for the laundry chute.
The hatch Lily had mentioned.
I pulled the metal latch.
The small square door swung open.
A draft of cool air rushed out.
I reached inside the dark chute.
My fingers searched the dust and wood splinters.
Near the bottom edge, where the wood met the brick, my hand struck something hard.
A small plastic recording device.
It was a battery-powered baby monitor.
It had a bright green light glowing on its side.
The speaker was flickering.
A voice was coming through the tiny grill.
A weak, rasping whisper.
"Clara..." the voice breathed through the monitor.
"In my shoe..."
"The second key..."
"Under the porch..."
I stared at the glowing monitor in the pitch black.
Sarah Vance wasn't just waiting in that cell.
May you like
She had been broadcasting every sound to this closet for three years.
And upstairs, I heard the sound of Lily's bedroom door being kicked open.
