SHATTERED GLASS, HIDDEN SINS

"Drive faster," I ordered, my eyes glued to the horrifying photo on my phone screen. The black handgun resting mere inches from my sleeping daughter's head made my stomach violently pitch.

Chloe slammed her foot on the gas. "If he has a gun, Linda, we can't just walk through the front door. We're going to get ourselves killed, and the little girl."

"I'm not walking through the front door," I said, my mind racing through a Rolodex of Eleanor’s obsessive habits.

Eleanor lived in a sprawling, historic colonial on the affluent north side of town. She was a woman obsessed with appearances and paranoia. She trusted no one, least of all the banks, which was why she kept her valuables—and clearly, her son's dirty secrets—close to home.

"There's a storm cellar door around the back of Eleanor's house," I told Chloe. "It connects directly to the basement. It's chained from the inside, but you're a mechanic. You have bolt cutters in the back of this truck?"

Chloe nodded grimly. "Heavy duty ones."

"We go in through the basement. We find Lily. We get out."

"And what if they hear us?"

"They won't," I said, pulling my ruined silk dress tightly around me. "Eleanor is deaf in her left ear, and David is going to be pacing by the front door waiting for me. They think I'm broken. They think I'm going to walk right into their trap and beg."

Ten minutes later, Chloe killed the truck's headlights, letting us coast to a silent stop two houses down from Eleanor's towering property. The rain had started again, a cold, miserable drizzle that soaked us to the bone the moment we stepped out of the cab.

Chloe grabbed a massive pair of bright yellow bolt cutters from her toolbox. We crept through the manicured hedges, the wet grass silencing our footsteps.

Eleanor’s house was dark, save for the dim amber glow spilling from the living room windows. I peeked through the blinds. David was pacing relentlessly, running his hands through his thinning hair. Eleanor was sitting in her winged armchair, sipping a glass of bourbon, watching him with cold disdain.

I couldn't see Lily. She must have been moved.

We slipped around to the back. The rusted iron doors of the storm cellar were slick with rain. Chloe knelt, sliding the heavy steel jaws of the bolt cutters over the thick padlock. She strained, her arms shaking with the effort, until the lock snapped with a dull crack masked by the rolling thunder.

I pulled the heavy doors open, wincing at the groan of the hinges. We descended into the pitch-black basement, the air smelling of mildew and old cardboard.

I turned on my phone's flashlight, covering it with my hand to mute the glow. We navigated through stacks of antique furniture and holiday decorations.

"The stairs are this way," I whispered, pointing to the wooden steps leading up to the kitchen door.

But as the beam of my light swept across the far wall, something caught my eye.

Behind a stack of discarded moving boxes, the concrete wall was smooth, except for a heavy steel door set directly into the foundation. It looked like a walk-in freezer, but with a complex biometric keypad.

"What is that?" Chloe breathed.

"Eleanor's panic room," I said, dread settling heavy in my chest. "She had it installed years ago. She claimed it was for hurricane season, but we live in a landlocked state."

I stepped closer, brushing the dust off the keypad. The light on the panel was glowing red.

Engaged.

"She locked Lily in there," I choked out, a wave of nausea hitting me. The room was soundproof, heavily reinforced, and completely cut off from the outside world. If David and Eleanor decided to run, they could leave Lily in there, and no one would ever hear her scream.

"Linda," Chloe grabbed my shoulder, pointing her own flashlight toward a metal workbench adjacent to the vault.

Sitting on the workbench was a large, heavy-duty paper shredder. Next to it was a leather-bound book.

I recognized the embossed gold lettering instantly. It was my father's business ledger. The one Maya had died trying to bring to me.

I rushed over, throwing the book open. Half the pages were already missing, jagged edges showing where they had been violently ripped out. David had been busy. He was destroying the evidence of his embezzlement before I could get my hands on it.

But he hadn't finished.

I flipped to the back, to a section marked with a folded, yellowing piece of paper. I pulled it out. It wasn't a financial document.

It was a handwritten letter, penned in Eleanor’s elegant cursive, dated two days after Maya’s death.

David,

The mechanic has been paid. The car is clean. You need to pull yourself together. The girl was a parasite, just like her sister. We did what we had to do to protect what is rightfully ours. If Linda ever starts asking questions about the missing funds, you know the contingency plan. The trust documents are safely modified. Stay quiet, and this all goes away.

—Mother

"We did what we had to do," I read aloud, my voice shaking with a terrifying new rage. "Eleanor knew. She didn't just cover it up after the fact. She orchestrated the cover-up."

Before Chloe could respond, the wooden stairs creaked loudly.

The basement door at the top of the stairs swung open, spilling harsh yellow kitchen light down onto us.