Chapter 4 - THE HIDDEN PASSAGE
Andrew moved toward the closet door, his polished slipper soles gliding across the rug. My chest tightened until I couldn't breathe. Step by step, he approached. Just as his hand reached for the brass knob, a loud crashing noise shattered the silence from the lower floor—a heavy glass bottle smashing against marble, followed by the muffled thud of something heavy falling.
Evelyn gasped. "What was that? Is someone in the wine cellar?"
Andrew paused, his hand inches from our door. "Dr. Thorne must have dropped something. Or..." He frowned, turning back toward the hallway. "Stay here, Mother. Check the balcony. I'll go downstairs."
As soon as their footsteps faded down the hall, Nora grabbed my arm. "Now! We go now!"
"Where?!" I whispered frantically, clutching Liam to my chest. "They have guards downstairs! They have a van!"
"The laundry room," Nora said, her voice fiercely confident. "There's an access chute behind the dryer that leads down into the old servant crawlspaces. It's the only way to reach the lower subterranean level without passing the security cameras in the main foyer."
We slipped out of the closet, stepping over the threshold into the dark hallway. We moved like ghosts, taking advantage of the heavy thunderstorm raging outside to mask our movements. We reached the service stairs at the back of the estate and descended into the cold, industrial basement level. The air down here smelled entirely different—damp, metallic, laced with the sharp stench of bleach and antiseptic.
Nora led me into the massive laundry center. She pushed aside a heavy stack of folded linens, revealing a heavy wooden panel hinged to the wall. She pulled a key from her brassiere and unlocked it. Behind the wood lay a narrow, concrete stairwell spiraling down into ink-black darkness.
"Hold Liam tight," Nora urged, clicking on a small penlight. "Step carefully. The steps are wet."
We scrambled down the dark stairs, descending at least two stories below the main house foundation. The air grew frigid. At the bottom of the spiral, we entered a long, brick-walled corridor that looked like an old fallout shelter from the Cold War era. Iron pipes ran along the ceiling, groaning under high pressure. And then, from the end of the dark corridor, I heard it.
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A soft, rhythmic banging. A tin cup against iron bars. And a child's voice, small, raspy, and weak: "Mommy? Mommy, is that you? I was good today..."
My heart shattered into a thousand jagged pieces. The voice didn't sound like a stranger. It sounded like an older, articulate version of Liam’s sweet coos. I hurried forward, ignoring Nora's warning whisper, my eyes straining against the gloom until the penlight illuminated a heavy steel door with a small reinforced glass window.
