Chapter 4 - the key beneath her heart)
Emily lowered her glass carefully.
“Saint Catherine’s?” she repeated.
Marcus cut his steak. “Isn’t that where Dr. Patel practices?”
“No. She’s at Memorial Women’s Center.”
The knife paused against the plate.
Then Marcus laughed. “I must have mixed them up. Long day.”
He continued eating, but Emily saw the calculation behind his eyes. She forced down three bites and complained of nausea. In the bathroom upstairs, she knelt beside the toilet until the dizziness passed. She had drunk only a mouthful, yet the room tilted whenever she lifted her head.
He had put something in the water.
She locked the bathroom door, pushed two fingers down her throat, and made herself sick. Then she hid Ruth’s brass key inside the torn lining of her maternity support band. It rested beneath the curve of her stomach, the one place Marcus never searched because he considered the baby his property and her body merely its container.
When she emerged, he was waiting beside the bed.
“You look pale.”
“I’m pregnant.”
“You’re secretive.”
“I’m tired.”
He cupped the back of her neck. To anyone else, it would have looked affectionate. His thumb pressed the pulse beneath her jaw.
“We shouldn’t lie to each other, Emily.”
“Then tell me why you have forty-seven photographs of basement doors.”
The words almost escaped. She swallowed them and leaned into his hand instead.
“I agree,” she said.
Marcus watched her for a long moment. Then he helped her into bed and remained seated beside her until the drugged heaviness finally pulled her under.
She woke at dawn alone.
The house was silent. Marcus’s car was gone, but that meant nothing. He often left it at the detached garage and used another vehicle when meeting clients. Emily placed pillows beneath the blanket to mimic her sleeping shape, dressed, and entered the service corridor.
The linen closet smelled of fresh plaster and bleach. She removed every towel, ran her fingers along the shelves, and found a keyhole hidden beneath a brass screw cap. Ruth’s key entered perfectly.
The entire shelving unit released with a soft mechanical click.
Emily pulled. The wall opened.
Cold air moved over her skin. A narrow staircase descended behind the closet into darkness. She used the light on her phone and went down one step at a time, supporting her belly with her free hand.
At the bottom was a concrete corridor. Thick pipes ran along the ceiling. The drilling she had heard was no renovation. Someone had expanded an old Prohibition cellar into a series of rooms.
The first contained medical supplies: restraints, sealed syringes, hospital gowns, and boxes of disposable phones. The second was an office. Filing cabinets lined the walls, each drawer labeled with a number.
Emily found drawer 48.
Inside was a single folder with her name, medical history, blood type, life insurance information, and photographs taken without her knowledge. Sleeping. Showering through frosted glass. Walking in the garden. At the bottom was a document titled Maternal Asset Transfer.
It named Marcus as the beneficiary of a trust valued at twelve million dollars, established by Emily’s grandfather and payable only to her child.
Emily had known about the trust. She had not known Marcus did.
Clipped to the document was a schedule.
Intake: September 18.
Delivery: On site.
Maternal disposition: Pending authorization.
September 18 was four days away.
Emily photographed every page. Then she opened drawer 47.
LENA ORTIZ.
The folder was empty except for a motel key card spotted with brown stains.
Drawer 1 carried no name. Inside lay a faded photograph of Anna standing outside the diner where she had worked. A red circle had been drawn around her face. Behind her, reflected in the diner window, stood a much younger Marcus.
Emily’s knees weakened.
She had not met him after Anna vanished. He had already known her family.
A noise traveled down the corridor.
Footsteps.
Emily closed the drawer and switched off her phone light. The steps descended slowly, without hesitation. She squeezed behind the office door and held her breath.
Detective Carl Voss entered carrying a cardboard box.
He looked older than he had at the wedding but just as heavy, his gray suit stretched across his shoulders. He set the box on the desk and called into the corridor.
“You can come out, Marcus.”
Marcus descended the final stair.
“Did she speak to Holt?” he asked.
“Ruth did. Holt went to the motel.”
“And Lena?”
Voss shrugged. “Moved.”
“Alive?”
“You told me not to ask.”
Marcus opened Emily’s drawer and stared at the folder. From behind the door, she could see his profile.
“Four more days,” he said. “Once the child is delivered, Emily signs the transfer.”
“And if she won’t?”
“They always sign.”
Voss lowered his voice. “She’s your wife.”
Marcus looked at him. “That is why I’ve been patient.”
Emily pressed both hands over her mouth. Her phone was in her pocket, still recording, but the screen glowed faintly through the fabric. Marcus turned toward the light.
The baby moved.
The sound that followed was tiny, almost nothing: the brass key slipping from Emily’s support band and striking concrete.
Voss reached for his weapon.
Marcus walked toward the office door.
May you like
Emily had nowhere to run.
Then every light in the basement went out.
