Chapter 13 - The Dig Site
Arthur drove through the black iron gates of the old estate just after noon.
The air here still tasted of soot and sulfur.
The contractors had cleared most of the collapsed timber, leaving the jagged stone foundations exposed like broken teeth.
Arthur wore heavy work boots and carried a flashlight, his mind racing with impossible theories.
The police had swept the perimeter after the fire.
The arson investigators had filed their reports.
There were supposed to be no survivors, no hidden rooms left uncatalogued.
He stepped over the caution tape fluttering in the brisk wind.
The spot where the rose wall once stood was now a crater of blackened brick and crushed mortar.
Arthur knelt near the edge of the pit, clicking on the high-powered tactical beam.
The light cut through the gloom of the exposed cellar.
Down in the corner, half-hidden beneath a slab of reinforced concrete that hadn't collapsed, was a steel storm hatch.
It was secured with a brand-new padlock.
The brass of the lock was shiny, unblemished by smoke, heat, or rain.
Someone had installed it within the last forty-eight hours.
Arthur pulled a crowbar from his duffel bag, his breathing shallow and jagged.
He jammed the iron wedge beneath the hasp and leaned his entire body weight into it.
Metal screeched in protest.
With a sharp *crack*, the wood frame splintered, and the lock snapped free.
Arthur hauled the heavy iron door upward.
A wave of air rushed out from the subterranean darkness.
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It didn't smell like damp earth or mold.
It smelled of fresh laundry detergent, lavender, and cold, metallic blood.
