My pregnant sister toasted to the death of my unborn baby at her baby shower, and when I tried to leave, my own mother shoved me off a second-floor balcony—but the detective’s discovery at the hospital revealed a nightmare far worse than I imagined. / Chapter 23 / 81

Chapter 23 - Beneath the Broken Marble

I hit the dirt slope fifteen feet down, tumbling through a cascade of dislodged brick and choking mortar dust. My shoulder slammed into a rotted wooden beam, knocking the wind from my lungs. I lay there in the pitch darkness, coughing, my eyes watering as particulate matter filled my throat.

Above, the muffled sirens of fifty police units sounded distant, separated by a ceiling of collapsed limestone and heavy turf. The air was frigid, thick with the smell of damp earth, centuries-old mold, and the sharp chemical sting of exploded cordite.

"Elizabeth!" Daniel’s voice pierced the dark, raspy and urgent.

"I'm here," I choked out, pressing my palms against the cold ground. "I'm alive."

A beam of light sliced through the haze as Daniel flicked on a tactical penlight. He was covered in gray dust, blood trickling from the cuts on his temple, but his gaze was sharp, focused entirely on me. He scrambled over the pile of rubble, his hands quickly checking my neck, my shoulders, my bandaged torso.

"You're in one piece," he breathed, his voice trembling slightly before he regained his hard detective composure. "Can you stand?"

"I have to," I said, leaning on him as he hoisted me up. Every nerve in my spine screamed, but the adrenaline surged hot in my veins.

Five yards away, Martha lay crumpled against a collapsed brick archway, coughing violently. The cuffs were locked around one of her wrists, the loose link dangling against the floor. Sterling was nowhere to be seen; the dust trail and broken timbers indicated he had fallen further down the shaft, into the deep subterranean drainage system built into the hill.

"Raymond went deeper," Daniel said, pointing the narrow beam of light down a long, vaulted brick corridor that stretched beneath the cemetery hill. "This isn't an ordinary crypt. These are the old bootlegger passages Arthur Senior fortified in the sixties."

Martha laughed from the rubble, a wet, rattling sound that turned into a retch. She wiped soot from her face, her eyes glittering in the thin beam of light.

"Bootlegging?" she hissed, leaning against the cold bricks as she struggled to her feet. "You think my father cared about alcohol? Look around you, Detective. Look where you're standing. This is where he kept his real investments."

Daniel raised his weapon, keeping it trained on her chest. "Walk in front of us, Martha. One sudden move, and I won't wait for a jury."

Martha didn't look afraid. She looked triumphant. She gestured toward the corridor ahead, where a reinforced iron security door stood slightly ajar, blown off its hinges by the shockwave of the detonation.