Cellar Door

I always came back to those ethereal eyes amid the storm. I saw him. I knew he was real. I had to believe in him…because the alternative was too gruesome to accept.

Luke Easton.

He has a name. He has an agenda.

And he has no idea who I am.

There’s an advantage to that.

I lean my back against the wall and stare up at the ceiling. The candlelight flickers. Large wood beams cross overhead. Something seems off about the structure…the beams not even in length, cut short where they abut the wall.

I look at the wall to my right. In the dim candlelight it’s hard to notice, but the wall is a newer addition to the cellar.

There are two rooms.

The chain prevents me from getting a closer inspection. That’s my first obstacle. I trace my fingers over the thick cuff that wraps my ankle. It stainless steel, shiny and new. A lock connects it to the chain, that is also new; no weakened rust damage.

My heart picks up pace as the options to escape become more limited.

“Think…”

My voice rebounds off the stone, and I glance around the darkness, wondering if he’s installed video or audio surveillance.

Why did he build this cellar?

What’s in the other room?

Why didn’t he kill me?

Twice he’s appeared during my investigation. Twice I’ve watched him murder in cold blood.

What does he do with the bodies?

This question is the most important.

The answer is everything. Freedom. Validation.

Atonement.

Being held hostage in a killer’s cellar isn’t an ideal situation to conduct an investigation, but I was a detective once. I’ve worked under extreme circumstances before. I almost laugh at the absurdity of that thought. The darkness and pure silence trigger a suffocating moment of panic—and I’m questioning if I’ve finally lost my mind. Am I really here, in this bizarre situation? Or am I in a padded room somewhere?

It doesn’t matter. I’ll have my answers soon.

I quiet my breathing, stilling my antsy nerves, and listen for the sound of footsteps, for the patter of rain, the boom of thunder—some indicator as to how far he’s taking me from the city and below the earth.

When lightning strikes, I know it—I feel the vibration roll through the concrete.

I close my eyes and place my palms to the cool slab, letting the rumbling quake comfort me. I hold my breath a beat, then I spring into action. I scrape my nails around the spike as I try to loosen it from the cement. I yank and pull and slam my booted foot against the iron stake.

I never once doubted what I saw that night. I’m not going to start now. Luke Easton is a killer, and I’m going to prove it. I’m going to find Hudson’s remains—the proof of my innocence—the proof that there was a monster there that night. Then I’m going to shove this spike through the monster’s head.

6

Enemies

Luke

I could be a cop. If I wanted to be. It wouldn’t be difficult. Puzzles come easily to me. All you have to do is start at the scene of the crime and work your way backward to the perpetrator.