Chapter 6 - The Floor Beneath the Concrete
The yellow police tape flapped lazily in the autumn wind around the perimeter of 114 Maplewood Drive.
The neighborhood was dead quiet. Mrs. Harris’s curtains twitched across the street as I pulled my truck into the alley behind the property, but she didn’t come outside. She knew what lived in that house now, and fear had sealed every door on the block.
I slipped through the gap in the wooden fence. The pool sat still, its green water cleared of the bags, but the plastic outline of the dog cage was still visible as a flattened yellow rectangle in the dying grass. The smell of chlorine, stale pond water, and old bleach hung thick in the damp air.
I moved directly to the wooden shed in the far corner of the yard.
The heavy steel padlock on the shed door had already been cut by the police during their initial protective sweep, held closed now only by a flimsy zip-tie stamped with an evidence seal. I sliced through the plastic tie with my pocketknife and slipped inside, pulling the door shut behind me.
The shed smelled of gasoline, fertilizer, and motor oil.
I turned on my phone’s flashlight. In the center sat the rusted riding mower. Following Claire Caldwell’s instructions, I shoved the heavy machine aside, scraping the deck against the wooden floorboards.
Beneath the mower, three wooden planks looked slightly cleaner than the rest. I wedged the tip of my garden pliers under the seam and levered upward with all my body weight. The wood groaned, nails screaming as they pulled free from the joists.
There, nestled in the damp earth beneath the subfloor, was a black steel firebox.
It wasn't locked. Julian had evidently been accessing it frequently over the last forty-eight hours.
I opened the lid.
Inside lay three external hard drives, two thick stacks of hundred-dollar bills bound with bank bands, and a woman’s leather purse.
Elena’s purse.
My breath caught. I reached in and pulled the bag into the light. Inside was her driver’s license, her credit cards, her car keys, and her asthma inhaler. She never left the house without her inhaler; her lungs had been fragile since childhood.
Beneath the purse sat a small, micro-cassette audio recorder—the kind old-school paralegals used for dictation.
A piece of masking tape was stuck to the plastic casing, labeled in blue ballpoint ink: Elena & Julian - Friday 6:30 PM.
With shaking fingers, I pressed the plastic Play button.
A burst of static filled the tiny wooden shed, followed by the sound of muffled shouting:
“...cannot keep doing this, Julian! The feds were at Peter’s house this morning! You stole from Mrs. Montgomery!”
(Elena’s voice—furious, shaking, unmistakable.)
“Elena, sit down and shut your mouth. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
(Julian’s voice—cool, measured, terrifyingly flat.)
“I’m calling Mark. I’m taking Emily and we’re leaving. Right now.”
“You aren't taking anyone, Elena.”
The sound of glass shattering. A short, violent scuffle. A woman’s sharp gasp, followed by a heavy, hollow thud against a hardwood floor.
Then, complete silence on the tape for forty seconds, save for the rhythmic, heavy breathing of a man.
Then, a third voice spoke into the room.
A voice that did not belong to Julian Croft.
“She’s still breathing, Julian. Finish it, or we both go to federal prison.”
My heart plummeted into an icy abyss.
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The third voice on the recording belonged to Arthur Vance.
Julian’s defense attorney.
