Another pause.
Then he looked at me.
“Claire,” he said carefully, “do you know someone named Everett?”
The name struck so hard I almost dropped Lily.
Everett.
My father’s middle name.
Also the name of the law firm Derek insisted we stop using after my father died.
“No,” I lied automatically.
Martin noticed.
His gaze softened. “We need to get downstairs.”
The basement stairs creaked under our weight. Lily refused to let go of me, so I carried her even though my ankle throbbed with each step. Martin followed, locking the door at the top and sliding a bolt I had never noticed before.
The basement was partly finished, with shelves of canned peaches, old lesson plans, holiday decorations, and a worn couch facing an unplugged television. Martin led us behind the furnace to a small storage room.
“This house was built in 1941,” he said. “There’s a coal chute behind those shelves. It opens near the alley. I haven’t used it in years, but it still moves.”
I stared at him. “Why do you have a hidden exit?”
He gave a tired little smile. “Because my late wife hated tornadoes and trusted contractors less than weather reports.”
Lily did not smile.
She leaned close to my ear. “Mommy, Daddy knows I heard.”
My chest tightened.
“How?”
“I dropped my cup,” she whispered. “In the hallway. He stopped talking. I ran back to bed, but later he came into my room. He thought I was asleep.”
“What did he do?”
“He just stood there,” she said. “A long time.”
I closed my eyes.
Derek standing in the dark, watching our child pretend to sleep. I knew his silence. I knew the way he could make a room feel smaller without raising his voice.
Martin shifted the shelves with surprising strength. Behind them was a square wooden panel painted the same gray as the wall.
His phone buzzed again.
He read the screen. “Annie says the sedan is gone.”
Relief almost reached me.
Then something thudded upstairs.
Once.
Then again.
A knock.
Not at Martin’s front door.
Inside the house.
Martin’s face drained of color.